Some Days Are Worse Than Others
by sydedalus
Summary: An alternate ending for The Honeymoon, still unfinished. House gets suicidal over Stacy, picks a fight in a bar, and nearly overdoses. HouseWilson friendship with a good dose of Cuddy and some Stacy. Gen. First few chapters rated M for language. WIP. AU.
1. You've Killed the Better Part of Me

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is M, R for language.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** This fic used to be spoilerific, based on the leaked ending to "The Honeymoon," which Fox changed drastically. Here you have a fic that takes the original ending and runs with it. Please see the endnote to chapter 4 for a partial transcription of the sides that this fic is based on. I'd frontload them here but maybe it's more fun if you read through it like it is. ;) Obviously, the dialogue in this chapter was kept with minimal changes in the final aired version of "The Honeymoon." It is, of course, NOT MINE: it belongs to Fox, the writers, the producers, etc. Same with the dialogue from the script that appears in chapter 2. Everything after chapter 2 is original material.

A note on the rating of this fic. In general, it'll be T+. The first two chapters are M, though, for language and violence, so please use your discretion in reading them.

One final note on the writing. Most of the early chapters were written before "Kids" aired, i.e. before House and Cameron's date. I'm going to fix some of the inaccuracies relative to that but until I get to it, I just wanted to let you know when the writing occurred as an explanation for the discrepancies between this fic and canon. Also, clearly what you see in this chapter was not what Hugh Laurie and Lisa Edelstein gave us in "The Honeymoon." Call it dramatic license. ;)

So. Here's how it might have gone…

* * *

**One: You've Killed the Better Part of Me**

_I said that I'd said that I'd tell ya  
__And that's you've killed the better part of me.  
__If you could just milk it for everything.  
__I've said what I've said and you know what I mean  
__But I still can't focus on anything.  
__We kiss on the mouth but still cough down our sleeves._

—Modest Mouse, "Dramamine"

Cuddy and House stood in the hallway talking. It had been a long week for both of them and even longer month in the wake of Vogler. For his part, House just wanted to leave.

It was Friday. He wanted to go home and forget everything that had happened since Stacy had walked back into his life. He wanted to drive home reckless and stupid and running red lights and stop signs, to feel how his leg hurt for it, driving a stick. He wanted to walk into his apartment and leave all the shit at the door. Then he wanted to take a few Vicodin, have a drink, jerk off, whale on the punching bag he'd borrowed from Wilson until he collapsed, and end by sleeping as long as he possibly could, alone, away from everything and everyone. That was what he wanted. He wanted to be left the fuck alone.

So he'd just tried to extricate himself from the conversation to get started on that list and she'd stopped him. "Hang on," she'd said.

He gripped his cane impatiently and drummed the fingers of his left hand against his side. Whatever she had to say to him right now was of no interest whatsoever to him. She could say, 'take me, House, I'm all yours,' and look all breathless and horny and he'd just leave. He wasn't in the mood for anything right now that wasn't on his to-do list.

"I want to run something by you," she said.

She didn't just _say_ things like that. He tensed, on guard, expecting something bad, though what could be worse than what he'd already been through this week?

Cuddy.

Cuddy annoyed him. Cuddy annoyed him most of the time, but since she'd gone to bat for him with Vogler, he'd felt a little less annoyed. Now, though, he was back to his usual level of annoyance with her. It was bad enough that he'd been so unfortunate as to dig himself into the memory of five years ago recently, the infarction, the fuck up, how he'd been dead (that part didn't bother him) and how Cuddy'd brought him back (that part bothered him). How Cuddy had seen him dead, a corpse on the table, and shocked his ass back into the mortal coil. His life in her hands then. His job in her hands recently, which only made things worse when they'd been bad enough as it was. And after Stacy'd left, his heart in her hands.

They'd fucked that up too. That is to say, they'd fucked, and then they'd fucked up. He was on the rebound, he should've known better. She'd seen him dead and probably had at least some idea of just how big his dick was, his formerly dead dick attached to his formerly dead body, before she entered into it, and she should've known better. Fuck ethics. Fuck patient/doctor relations. If she had really felt something for him, she would have known better than to try and glue him back together when he'd only just been smashed apart. She'd given it a try, resuscitating him emotionally after she'd done it physically, she'd really given it not so bad of a try, but she should've known. She had been there. She had fucking been there. For that moment when Stacy let it slip just as he was losing consciousness, the moment he'd realized that (and he'd known it all along, really he had) things could go very badly. She'd seen how in love he'd been with Stacy. She was a woman. He operated under the assumption that women knew that it took a while 1. to get over a serious relationship and 2. to get used to the idea that you're crippled for life. Well, the last one was unisexual, but the first thing—Cuddy should've known.

When he thought back on it now, he liked to think that she had known and she'd done it anyway. That it had been another one of life's little kicks to keep him down, face permanently stuck in the mud. It made it easier for him to live, thinking that. But he knew she hadn't done it knowingly and he couldn't really hate her for it. He didn't hate her. He didn't even dislike her. It might be a leap to say he actually did like her, but at the least he respected and tolerated her, and he could count on one hand the number of people those two verbs applied to. And she was, despite the comment that was about to spring from his lips, a pretty decent fuck.

"I will not have sex with you again no matter how much you beg me," he said. "It was miserable the first time, all the desperate administrative _need_—"

She squared on him and he knew whatever was coming next he wasn't going to like at all. He was, in fact, going to hate it. Whatever it was.

She took a deep breath. She knew that what she was about to tell him wasn't going to be easy on him. Nothing about this week or the last week had been easy on him. But she needed to know. It was her job to get his answer because she was in charge of hiring and that was that. She didn't have to like it and right now she'd give anything to have someone else tell him this.

"Stacy's husband is going to need close monitoring here at the hospital and since we could definitely use her back here, I offered her a consulting job, risk management," she said.

His gaze, which had been defiant and fixed on Cuddy, dropped immediately to the floor. A very small, emotionally disconnected part of his brain raised lips and eyebrows in ironic laughter at having her back here in risk management of all things. It was so apt. But for the most part he just felt numb.

The week had been such hell already, starting with Stacy's outright refusal to acknowledge that they'd ever had anything when she'd gone with the ambulance crew instead of taking up his offer to drive her to the hospital. She was upset. At him. At hubby passing out. He understood that, but couldn't she just….

And now this.

He couldn't say that he hadn't seen it coming. He had just hoped that life wouldn't give him another kick in the pants, grind his face further into the mud. It was bad enough that he had to treat the guy who got to come home to her everyday, to tell her he loved her, to be told the same thing back, to smell the scent of her at home after she'd left a room, to fuck her senseless one night and go slowly and tenderly the next, to wake up next to her in the morning, sniff her morning breath and send her to the toothpaste, to take in all the small things that she did that made her who she was, to feel her warm next to him on the couch watching tv, to make her laugh, to wear a ring that said she was his and his only and everyone else could back the fuck up—it was more than bad enough that he had treat this guy, this Mark, to be forced by his job to think about how he was doing everyday and wonder how soon he'd send him home so he could go back to fucking the woman he loved, but now he was going to have to see her too everyday, no longer as the patient's wife, the next of kin, someone he could shirk like so much excess baggage, but now as a colleague. A lawyer. Given his penchant for risk, probably his lawyer. And it meant that now she was here, she might not ever leave. He might be forced to watch her love someone else—that every time he saw her, he would know that she loved someone else and not him. That he would never get her back. Because, hell, even if hubby did kick off, what were the chances she'd come back to him? to the bitter, selfish old man he'd become? They were just about fucking zero.

He realized Cuddy was still looking at him. He was dazed by this news but his mind had never stopped working—that was his problem, it never did stop working, ever. It kept him trapped as much as his leg did now.

He took the next logical step in the conversation because he didn't know what else to do and he sure as hell didn't want Cuddy doing anything drastic like giving him a hug.

He didn't look at her. He couldn't look at her.

"Did she say yes?" he asked dully, eyes still on the floor. As if it fucking mattered.

"She said only if it was okay with you," Cuddy answered.

She had that softened quality in her voice again that meant she was feeling something other than contempt for him at that moment. He couldn't stand it.

And Stacy. Fuck. She would. She fucking would. Do the nice fucking thing that in reality only put it all on him again, so that if she started working here, it was with his blessing, and if she didn't, he was the asshole who'd fucked her out of a good job while she watched her husband suffer.

What choice did he have.

Really. In any of it. In all of it.

What choice did he fucking have.

He didn't have a choice about his leg and until very recently, he didn't have a choice about his job. Now he did have a "choice," in a manner of speaking, but his job was his life and whatever he chose would make it even more of a living hell than it already was, take away the small amount of pleasure he had until now managed to derive from it, so what choice was that.

But he did have one real choice about his life. The ultimate choice.

Cuddy had brought him back before and it had been a mistake. She should've let him die happy and in love right then and there. Everyone's lives would have been easier, including his. But no. Instead she'd done the doctorly thing. He hadn't signed a DNR because he'd still had hope then. Hell, he'd had hope _and _love. But once those paddles touched his chest and got his fucking heart beating again, beating him into the ground, all choices, all hope of love, were removed from his life. Only the illusion of choice was left, what he had dangling in his face right now. He'd already signed his leg away by the time Cuddy got around to shocking him and Stacy had started in on signing the better part of him away too. He should've signed that DNR. But he still had that one thing. And he'd be damned if he let Cuddy save him this time.

He was determined now. It was time to leave.

He turned and walked away without looking at her again. He knew what he would do. He didn't know how he'd do it, but he knew what he would do.

"Yes or no," he heard her say.

He stopped and turned to look at her, feeling nothing. "It's fine," he said.

He wouldn't be the asshole anymore.


	2. The Drinker

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is M, R for language and graphic violence.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for episode 21 which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.  
**Credits:** Big thanks to Audtrix for tossing House's thinking ball around with me and fleshing the rest of this story out. If it's good, it's good cause of her. (If it's bad, it's obviously my fault.) And Wilson's punching bag is borrowed from moonlashcc's fic "Anger Management," which I highly recommend (h t t p : slash slash wwwdot livejournal dot com slash community slash housefic slash 66556 dot html).

**(Old) A/N:** In case some of you who haven't read the sides are reading this, they include the bit with the trucker and the hooker and dialogue up to House's line, "He's not finished," which I've modified pretty freely. The show cuts and fades out with House's line. Obviously, I'm picking up where it leaves off, so the rest of this fic is "original," so to speak, or, at least, not based on spoilers.

bagira – Thanks. I hope this new bit doesn't disappoint.

bree/Megan – Yep, the spoilers are something. I'm reading quite a bit into them, obviously. ;)

* * *

**Two: The Drinker**

_The man is killing time—there's nothing else.  
No help now from the fifth of Bourbon  
chucked helter-skelter into the river,  
even its cork sucked under._

_Stubbed before-breakfast cigarettes  
burn bull's-eyes on the bedside table;  
a plastic tumbler of alka seltzer  
champagnes in the bathroom._

_No help from his body, the whale's  
warm-hearted blubber, foundering down  
leagues of ocean, gasping whiteness.  
The barbed hooks fester. The lines snap tight._

_When he looks for neighbors, their names blur in the window,  
his distracted eye sees only glass sky.  
His despair has the galvanized color  
of the mop and water in the galvanized bucket._

_Once she was close to him  
as water to the dead metal._

_He looks at her engagements inked on her calendar.  
A list of indictments.  
At the numbers in her thumbed black telephone book.  
A quiver full of arrows._

_Her absence hisses like steam,  
the pipes sing...  
even corroded metal somehow functions.  
He snores in his iron lung,_

_and hears the voice of Eve,  
beseeching freedom from the Garden's  
perfect and ponderous bubble. No voice  
outsings the serpent's flawed, euphoric hiss._

_The cheese wilts in the rat-trap,  
the milk turns to junket in the cornflakes bowl,  
car keys and razor blades  
shine in an ashtray._

_Is he killing time? Out on the street,  
two cops on horseback clop through the April rain  
to check the parking meter violations—  
their oilskins yellow as forsythia._

—Robert Lowell, "The Drinker"

House stabbed the parking garage pavement with his cane. Step, stab, step, stab, step, stab. That was what the ground did to him most of the time—step, stab, step, stab, step, stab, pain rippling through his leg—so why not return the favor. His bag thumped against his side with each motion. The parking garage, as far as he could tell, was empty.

Step, stab, step, stab, his car, sex on wheels, in sight, hard to miss, step, stab, step, stab, _fucking Stacy_, _fuck-ing Stacy _and in an instant he'd dropped his cane, slung the bag off of his shoulder, and hurled it at the concrete pylon.

The echo of his cane clattering, the bag smacking against the pillar, his cry of rage as he threw it and of pain as he stepped down hard on his bad leg—it didn't last long enough. He wanted to do it again and again. He wanted some reckless teenage driver to careen through the garage and run him down on the spot so he wouldn't have to pick things up. His cane. His bag. Worthless weights around his neck.

Why was he still breathing.

He bent, wincing involuntarily, to pick up his cane and hobbled over to the pylon to retrieve his bag. His Gameboy and iPod were in there. He hoped they were broken.

Reaching the car of every man's mid-life crisis, he tossed the bag in the front seat and squeezed himself into the seat. His leg hurt like hell. He put two Vicodin in his mouth and swallowed them.

He didn't want to go home. He didn't want to follow the list he'd made, that he'd followed nearly every day since Stacy came back. Tuesday and Wednesday had been okay, better than yesterday or today. He'd been working hard, tracking the problem, keeping occupied the way he best liked to be occupied. And then when he had gone home, it was to a drink, a few pills, and one of the higher class hookers available in the city for a long, slow blow job that left him relaxed enough to sleep for a few hours. Then infomercials and porn and he felt like he could go back to work without exploding.

But yesterday. Yesterday was bad. Yesterday everything had gotten to him. He'd snarled and snapped at everyone and they all had the sense to leave him alone except Wilson. Wilson started pushing him, saying that this wasn't healthy, that he needed to talk to her, that he needed therapy. Fuck that. He'd done all the talking he wanted to do with Stacy. He had nothing left to say to her. But Wilson just wouldn't stop. Pushing him and pushing him and telling him what to do and finally House went off and started yelling at him. Wilson couldn't handle it either and started yelling back. House didn't remember what was said, but all his part was to the tune of "get the fuck out of my life" and all of Wilson's part was "you need to stop doing this" and getting him into therapy and other bullshit that he wanted no part of. They yelled until Wilson finally got it and stormed out before House could throw anything at him. They'd seen each other in the hall three times today. House didn't look at him and didn't acknowledge him or the anger that burned in his chest. Wilson didn't look at House either. He'd be perfectly happy to never see Wilson again.

So when he'd gone home that night, he'd unleashed on Wilson's punching bag, which was perfect because it smelled like Wilson and all he wanted to do was beat him and Stacy and Cuddy and Cameron until they all left him the fuck alone. He was tired when Candy came over but still angry enough that he pushed her, saying faster faster and bucking into her mouth, fuck propriety, even as she deep throated. He cried out angry and frustrated when he came and rolled over, dick still half-hard and wet with saliva and semen, directing her to the money on the dresser, not bothering with covers or pillows or anything and not caring if his leg hurt later because he'd slept on his side, and fell asleep before she could thank him for the big tip he'd left her.

He didn't like angry sex and he didn't mistreat hookers, but he knew that if he went home to the routine tonight, he would hurt her and end up in deep shit with her pimp. He didn't want that. He didn't want another night of drinking alone and beating the shit out of a bag that smelled like Wilson. He turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine roar and purr. He didn't want any of it.

He popped the clutch and tore out of the parking garage, hearing the engine strain in first gear before he shifted to second, and strain in second before he shifted to third. His apartment was to the right. He turned left.

He drove in a circle around the city before his leg started really hurting. He stopped at an ATM and took out two-hundred dollars. He'd need cash for whatever it was he was going to do tonight. Which, he'd pretty much decided, was going to be getting fucked up in some way. He drove off from the ATM, leg burning now, and decided he'd stop at the next suitable place he saw.

It didn't take long to find a good place. A door in the side of a run-down brick building that had a dilapidated sign announcing its name hanging above it. It would do just fine. He found a place to park, swallowed two Vicodin, and went into the bar.

* * *

It was nearly full. Full of desperate people. Alcoholics waiting on liver transplants like the old man passed out at the bar. A greasy salesman in a rumpled suit who'd probably been there since they opened for the night and hadn't made a sale in a month. Several rednecks in plaid shirts, gigantic guts hanging over their gigantic belt buckles, skinny legs and practically no ass to sit on. More washed up middling semi-professional types freshly released from their cubicles, staring at nothing. Losers who'd lost the only thing they had left years ago and came here to drink themselves to death. Clouds of smoke. Sawdust on the floor. Megadeath on the PA. A full-on shithole. Perfect.

House took a seat in the middle of the bar. The bartender came over.

"Two shots of Makers and a Guinness," House said. The bartender nodded and got the drinks. House gave him a twenty and waved off the change.

He knocked back the shots and started in on the Guinness, taking it more slowly. A good Guinness was something to be savored ideally, but he wasn't interested in savoring anything tonight. Still, it was cool running down his throat, chasing the burn of the bourbon. He sat for a minute, sipping the beer and waiting for the shots to kick in. They were taking too long.

He tapped the bar and the bartender came over. "Another shot," he said and pressed a five dollar bill on the bar when it arrived. He gulped it down and got to work on the beer.

* * *

Half an hour later he was out another twenty bucks and seriously fucked up. He'd lost track of how many shots he'd had but he'd only had one pint and it had gone straight through him.

House stumbled to the bathroom. He took a piss and then staggered into a stall and puked all over the seat. He didn't bother flushing. Someone else had puked in there already.

He felt more sober now. Fuck that. He swallowed two more pills and gimped back to the bar. That made five or six or seven or something, plus or minus whatever he'd just puked up. Damn his body for refusing poison.

He sat back down and ordered another shot and another Guinness, tipping the bartender liberally. He tossed down the shot and started chugging the Guinness, foam spilling onto his face and shirt. He put the glass down, half empty, and swayed as the shot hit him and the beer started doing its work, sloshing inside him, making his blood burn. He belched and picked up the glass again, finishing it off.

He lit a cigarette and took a drag, waiting for the Vicodin to kick in. Nothing about tonight was going to be slow if he could help it and he sucked on the cigarette mercilessly.

Fucking Stacy. Fucking Wilson. Fucking Cuddy. He'd say 'fucking Cameron' too but she was such small potatoes now that he didn't even bother. Fucking Stacy. She would walk right back in and start fucking with his head again. Poor ol' hubby's sick and dying and no one knows what to do, but you, Greg, you're brilliant, could you do this for me, fix him, make him better so I can go back to my life, happier than when I left it, and you'll still be in the same place I left you five years ago? You'll still be so fucked up you can't even act normal and take advantage of it when the hot young babe on your staff throws herself at you. "Do her or you're gay," that guy had said. And he was right. It was seriously cracked that he couldn't just run with it. Stacy'd left him so fucked up he couldn't settle down enough to deal with Cameron maturely. Because he did feel something for her. Or he had. But every time the impulse to feel something came up, he pushed away, because he couldn't do it anymore. Not after her. Not after what he'd gone through. He didn't need anybody and he didn't want anybody. And fuck Wilson for suggesting otherwise. "You have no relationships," he'd said. As if it meant something. Well, it meant fuck all to him. It was enough that he had alcohol, Vicodin, music, work, and a buddy to hang out with now and then. That was all he needed, aside from the occasional blow job. And he had money for them, so he was fucking fine. He didn't want a girlfriend. At his age, having a girlfriend was pathetic and sleazy. He didn't want a wife either. No girlfriend, no wife, not even a friend with benefits who happened to be female, because that never worked out. She always got needy and started pushing on him. He didn't want a guy either. He didn't want anything beyond sex. No love, no caring, no devotion, none of it. Absolutely fuck all. He needed food, shelter, and sex, and he got it and he was fine. He was absolutely fucking fine. So Stacy could step the fuck off.

He took one last drag on the cigarette and it stubbed out as an angry song pounded over the speakers. He recognized it. Rage Against the Machine. Good fighting music. His blood stirred. He wanted a fucking fight. He wanted to fight until he felt something again. Something that wasn't numb.

A few seats down he heard a hooker and a john talking.

"C'mon," the john said, "it's a nice night out. We could—"

The john started saying something in a low voice and scratched his balls. The hooker looked tired and washed out. The john was obviously a trucker. Either that or he was a lumberjack and there weren't a lot of lumberjacks in Jersey.

House heard her rebuff him. Good for her, even if she wasn't his kind of hooker. This might play to his advantage.

"Warden—" he said and the bartender came over. House handed him a ten dollar bill and the bartender poured him another shot and another Guinness. He fished his keys out of his pocket.

He slid them over the bar to the bartender. "No matter how insulting or degrading I am to you tonight," he said, "do not give these back to me." He wanted a fight, not a wreck. A fight he did to himself. A wreck usually involved others and he was fucked up enough already without killing someone while driving drunk.

The bartender nodded and took his keys, putting them away.

House leaned down toward the shot, head spinning, and sipped from the glass until the liquid was under the line and he could trust himself to pick it up and not spill it. He did, hand shaking now that the other two Vicodin were starting to kick in, and swallowed it. He put the glass back on the bar and stuck his finger in the head of Guinness. He licked it. Yeah, he was fucked up.

He had no idea what would happen tonight, but he imagined he'd end up in an alley or the drunk tank. Whatever. He didn't care what happened. Stacy flashed unbidden in his mind again and he growled to himself. The music, the beer, Stacy, Wilson, all of it made him want a fight like nothing else. The Vicodin was holding him back, making him mellow.

"No means no," he heard from across the bar. It was the hooker, shoving away the big guy's hands. Well, one of his hands. The other one was busy scratching his crotch. He said something to her that House didn't catch. This would do. Better than a punching bag that smelled like Wilson. With so much Vicodin and alcohol in his blood, feeling so numb, he could take this guy for a long time.

"Hey," he said sloppily to her, "is Mandingo bothering you?"

"Mandingo?" the trucker growled, "you callin me a—"

"You're a trucker, right?" House said, getting up from his seat and limping over to them. "Piss in a bottle while you drive. The reason you're scratching your penis," House said and he, the trucker, and the hooker looked down simultaneously and the trucker self-consciously stopped scratching, "is because you have a bacterial infection from the container. You should wash it out once in a while. Either that or your—" he looked at her, "little ho gave you something extra for your twenty bucks."

"Who you callin' ho?" she said, head weaving from side to side with her words.

"Sorry," House said, "you're a nurse?" He leaned on his cane and the trucker looked from him to it and back.

"Look, buddy," the trucker said, eyes on the cane again, "we don't want no trouble with you."

Fuck, this guy was a piece of work. Who knew it took so much to get a drunk trucker to fight?

"You threatening a _blind_ man, sir?" House said, tapping him with his cane as though he were blind. His eyes were wide open and everything on his face said 'I'm fucking with you.' Each tap of the cane said, 'I'm fucking with you.'

"You're not blind," the trucker snarled, fists clenching.

House tapped him again. "There's a shape here," he said, tapping, "…it's big…" tap "…stupid…" he sniffed the air "…it even _smells_ dumb."

The trucker's face was red and he was shaking. "Go back to your beer, old man, before you get hurt."

Fuck this guy. What did it take.

"Let me put it in a way even you can understand," he said patronizingly, leaning in, practically on top of the trucker, "she can't love you because she's got twenty other johns." He tapped the guy again, hard, looking straight at him.

The trucker stood, a few inches taller than House and a good hundred and fifty pounds heavier.

"I'll hit a cripple," he said in House's face, sour stink of beer on his breath.

House laughed at him, not backing down. "With what?" he said, nodding to the trucker's hands, "Those? Your little girly hands? You might break a nail." He got up further in the trucker's face. "Bitch," he added.

The trucker punched him swift and hard in the gut and the pint of Guinness rose in his throat. He gagged and spat and sucked in air, winded, but he didn't double over. He hadn't even felt it, except to feel that it was good because it was what he wanted.

He coughed and got his breath back. "You know," he said, "I read my horoscope today. It said I had a very good chance of getting my ass kicked by a big, dumb, son of a—"

The trucker swung with his right fist and connected with House's cheek. Then a left on his jaw and a right in the eye and another left and an upper-cut that made his head fly back, but he didn't feel any it and he didn't move, feet planted hard to keep the force of the blows from knocking him over.

The attack stopped and he leaned forward on his cane, grinning through the blood in his teeth. "I got six Vicodin in me," he said, spitting blood at the trucker, "Hit me again, you sorry piece of—"

The trucker leaned in to comply but suddenly the bartender was in the middle of them, pushing the trucker back. The trucker swept him aside like he was paper and unleashed an attack on House's ribs and face.

Punch after punch after punch. It was good. It was the kind of beating he couldn't give himself.

But he wasn't going down. He was starting to feel it, staggering, blood running down his throat, but he wasn't going down. He wasn't going to go down until he was knocked down and he wasn't going to give up until he was knocked out. He needed this. He needed to feel this.

The trucker paused, breathing hard, his face flushed in the dark of the bar.

House laughed again. "Come on," he yelled, laughing, "do it. Do it again, you pussy."

The trucker started swinging, but by that time the other booze hounds felt like they should step in and keep his crippled ass from getting even more crippled. One-sided fights didn't go down too well, even when the guy getting the shit kicked out of him kept asking for it.

Suddenly there was a mob around him and he found himself in a headlock. He struggled, thrashing, and the guy holding him tightened his grip.

"No, no!" he cried, tears mixing with blood in his eyes that ran from cuts on his forehead. The trucker was wearing a large ring on his right hand that looked like it came from some kind of sports championship. House wiped his face with his sleeve, and looked up at the trucker, "Hit me!" he yelled, struggling, "Do it, you bastard! Do it!"

The trucker started struggling against the people who held him back.

"He's not finished!" House yelled. "Let him up!"

They didn't and the trucker stopped fighting them. House saw this.

"Come on, you filthy piece of shit! Finish it!" he yelled.

He elbowed the guy who had him in a headlock in the ribs and got loose, staggering forward.

"This guy's got an infected dick, don't touch him," he shouted and the crowd loosened its hold on the trucker as he surged forward again.

House welcomed it. More blows to the face and a few solid punches in the ribs and stomach. He threw up this time, blood and beer on the sawdust.

The crowd got a hold on the trucker again, but no one was coming near House. He stepped forward, getting in the trucker's face.

"Is that all you got, pussy?" he spat, breathing hard and wiping the blood and vomit off of his mouth.

The trucker surged again but the crowd held him back. House felt people closing in on him.

"Fucking come on!" he yelled and took a swing at the trucker.

The trucker broke loose and hit House harder than he'd hit him yet. The force of the blow made him stagger to the right and he collided with a barstool and toppled to the ground.

The trucker turned around to get back to his drink, cracking his knuckles in victory.

"That's enough," the bartender said and started to pick House up, handing him his cane. "I'll call you a cab. Go home and sleep it off." He didn't like fights in his bar because he didn't like the cops in his bar. But this guy was done for the night.

"Fuck you," House snarled and grabbed a glass from the floor as he got to his feet. He threw the glass at the trucker before the bartender could stop him.

The glass sailed past the trucker and hit the wall, but it got his attention. He turned and looked dully at House, who was barely standing now, blood on his face and shirt, leaning hard on his cane. "You're not finished," House said.

The trucker stood menacingly but didn't advance.

"Twenty dollar whore won't even sleep with you," House said. "Because you're a little pussy bitch."

The trucker picked up a chair and slammed it into House's left side. House hit the ground hard and didn't move for a second, but then he started trying to get up. The bartender called the cops. Didn't look like the old goat was going to stop fighting until he was hauled off.

The bartender motioned to one of the regulars who'd tried to hold the trucker back. The bartender shot him a look that said, 'Let's get him outside before he does any more damage,' and the regular nodded. Together, they picked House up and drug him through the bar to the exit. House was dazed but not done yet. He struggled and spat and cursed, but he didn't have the leverage to put up a fight. They propped him up against the building and he sunk for a second, dizzy, feeling blurred.

Seeing him subdued, the bartender said, "I gotta go back inside. Watch him till the cops come, okay?"

"I'm not getting involved, man," the regular said, his hands up, "not with the cops." He turned and walked away.

The bartender shrugged and went back inside. The cops would know what was up. If they even showed.

Inside, the trucker was trying to talk to the whore again. He saw the bartender come back.

"Come on, sweetheart," the trucker said, "I know where we can get some cash. I'm gonna treat you tonight." She shrugged tiredly and went with him.

Outside, House was struggling to get to his feet. He was still conscious. That wasn't how he wanted to be. He wanted more until he was finished for good.

The door swung open and the trucker and hooker stepped out.

"Gimme your wallet," the trucker said, standing over him.

"Fuck you," House said.

The trucker hit him hard and he flew into the side of the building and crumpled. He felt a hand in his back pocket as he tried to get up. The trucker kicked him in the gut and he went down again.

"Shit, baby, this guy's loaded," the trucker said, taking the cash out of House's wallet.

"See you in hell, asshole," the trucker said and tossed the wallet at House, who was gasping for breath after the kick.

The pair left and House lay there for a while, getting his wind back. He heard sirens as he tried to stand up.

A patrol car pulled up, lights flashing, and two cops stepped out of it.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" House said, bloody, speech tired and slurred, spitting blood as he talked.

"We got a call about a fight," the first cop said, not paying attention to House. "Step aside, sir."

"You found the fight," House said and charged the first cop. His partner grabbed House as he took a swing at the first cop. He barely connected with the guy's face before he was being held back.

"You're under arrest for assaulting an officer," the first cop said as his partner tried to get House's hands behind his back and reach for his cuffs at the same time.

"Fuck you, pig!" House said and started struggling, breaking free. The first cop clubbed him. He staggered but didn't go down, cuff around one of his wrists. He pushed the second cop as he tried to grab him and charged the first one again.

"You're gonna have to do better than that," he said and spat on him. The cop clubbed him in the head and this time he did go down.

"Call an ambulance," the first cop said to his partner as he knelt to fasten the other cuff, "this guy's on something."

His partner nodded and reached for the radio.

House was unconscious before he hit the pavement.


	3. Blood in the Foley

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T+ for language and medical squick.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.  
**Credits:** Thanks to Auditrix for helping me with the medical biznatch. It's still somewhat implausible, which is me being stubborn.

A/N at the end. To the reviewers – muchas gracias. Reviews, they are like cocaine, only better.

* * *

**Three: Blood in the Foley**

_A car radio bleats,  
"Love, O careless Love…" I hear  
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,  
as if my hand were at its throat..._

—Robert Lowell, "Skunk Hour"

House woke up swinging. Something was holding his arm back. And his arm really hurt. As did the rest of him. He stopped struggling and opened his eyes, squinting in the harsh light of the room. A hospital room. An ER room.

Fuck, he'd landed in a hospital.

Not an alley, not the drunk tank, not a morgue. A hospital. Fuck.

He couldn't even get properly fucked up. And he was fucking tied to the fucking bed with soft restraints. What, did they think he was going to _go_ somewhere?

His right hand and wrist were wrapped up. Probably broken. His head hurt like a motherfucker. Concussion, probably. He couldn't see too well out of his left eye, which he imagined was a lovely shade of puffed-up purple. His nose was packed with cotton and he was breathing through his mouth. Breathing hurt. Broken ribs, broken nose. His jaw didn't feel broken, though, which rather surprised him. And there was a tube running down his throat. Okay, so his nose was half packed with cotton and half packed with an NG tube and cotton. They'd pumped his stomach. Great. Just what he wanted.

He tried to pull himself up with his left hand. He pushed against the pain, his abdomen spiking it along with the rest of him, and he wasn't going to let it stop him until all the blood rushed from his head and he fell back with a strangled cry.

His heart was going like mad and he was panting. He recognized it as hypovolemic shock. So was bleeding internally too. But it wasn't that bad or he wouldn't be awake right now or still in the E.R. They definitely didn't know about it. Geniuses.

Something started moving in the room at his yelp. He'd seen a blur of purple when he'd tried to get up, but he was still startled when it spoke.

"Oh, good, you're awake," it said, friendly. It was a nurse. She stood and he got a look at her. Why would they have a nurse watching him? "The officers want to speak to you," she said and went toward the door.

"Wait," he said, "before you go." She stopped and turned to him, still friendly. "How long have I been here?" he asked.

"About forty-five minutes," she said, smiling. Why? Why would anyone smile at him?

He was angry that the cops had brought him here. They couldn't just leave him in the drunk tank like everyone else, could they, and let him bleed out in peace? That was just too fucking much to ask, wasn't it. But he was here and he obviously wasn't going anywhere any time soon, so why not give them a heads up—maybe they'd sedate him before he passed out and he wouldn't have to bother with them too long. Fucking doctors. Fucking cops.

"Okay," he said flippantly, fixing his good eye on her. "You've got about ten minutes—maybe fifteen—before I pass out from internal bleeding. Just so you know."

She looked askance at him, friendliness gone, as if _he_ were the one tied to the bed.

"Don't believe me?" he said casually. "Take a BP. Five bucks says the systolic's under ninety."

She tried to remain professional. "Sir, you're—"

"You know what?" he interrupted, trying to wave his hand and rattling the rail instead, "you're right. Nevermind. Let the fuzz in."

"I'll…tell the doctor," she said, somewhere between bewildered and annoyed, and went to the door.

He wished for a moment that he wasn't in a hospital gown that only went down to his mid-thigh and that there wasn't a little plastic tube snaking out of his dick, taped to his leg, because this just wasn't how he liked meeting with the cops, especially not when they'd dragged him here instead of prison where he belonged. But what really bothered him was the fact that both of his hands were tied to the bed, so he couldn't rearrange his gown or reach for a sheet if he'd wanted to. And he did want to. Damn genetics for making him so tall and damn hospital gown manufacturers for making them so short. However, Princeton General had the kind of gown that was open in the back instead of the kind that was open in the front that PPTH had, so he wasn't as exposed as he could be. But, all things considered, he'd rather be passed out in a cell right now, still fucked up, than loaded with saline and whatever feeble pain meds they'd given him, which weren't doing the least bit of good.

But hang on—he should still be grooving from the Vicodin. He was stone cold fucking sober instead. Shit—they must've figured it out and given him Naloxone and Acetylcysteine. _Shit_, that meant a tox screen. He was _so_ screwed now.

He didn't have time to dwell as two men stepped into the room followed by the nurse. House vaguely recognized one of them.

The taller one, the one who didn't look familiar, said, "This is Officer Dodge, I'm Officer Lopez."

"Which one of you did I hit?" House asked, trying to get a better look at them. Fuck them for bringing him here instead of leaving him to rot. So if he was fucking with them now, it was their fault.

Dodge scowled at him. That was his man.

"If I say I'm sorry, will it make it better?" House sneered.

"Sir," Lopez said professionally, "you have the right to remain silent. I suggest you exercise that right."

"Or what?" House said, voice dripping with sarcasm and barely repressed anger, "you'll use it against me in court? Go ahead. See if I care."

Dodge's posture got aggressive and he waved a finger at House, saying through his teeth, "Just wait until we get you—"

"He can't go anywhere," a new guy interrupted, stepping into the room.

House looked at him. The night shift doc. Great.

Lopez murmured something to Dodge and held him back.

"Not until he's cleared," the doctor added, looking over some labs.

"Cleared?" House asked.

"You have a concussion," the doctor said flatly, as if it were plainly obvious to everyone. He was looking down his nose at House.

"Yeah, I know," House said, ruffled. He looked at Dodge. "Thanks."

Dodge scowled at him again.

"And we need to get a psychiatric evaluation before we release you," the doctor added. There was a certain wicked quality to his voice that unnerved House.

"Why?" House asked. "Last time I checked, getting into a fight with a certified jackass wasn't grounds for a trip to the funny farm." He looked at Dodge. "Don't get angry, padre. I meant the other guy, not you."

Dodge just scowled again.

"We ran a tox screen at the request of the officers," the doctor said, tone clipped. "You nearly overdosed on Vicodin. Actually, we're not quite sure how you managed to attack these officers at all with the amount of Vicodin and alcohol in your system. Care to explain?"

"I have a medical condition," House groused, trying not to squirm. What was it about this guy? "And a high tolerance for pain meds." So he was right: they'd done a tox screen. He was in for it. They'd know now and they'd never leave him alone. Another thing he'd fucked up.

"Yes," the doctor said, "we know. We pulled your records. Your prescription is for a maximum dose of sixty milligrams per day. We found _much _more than that in your system."

"So?" House said. "My leg really, really hurt today and I needed a few extra pills. It means nothing. In fact, my leg really, really hurts right now."

"You _are_ a doctor, Dr. House," the doctor said, annoyed, "you know we can't give you anything else."

This guy. He really hated this guy.

He turned to the cops. "Doctors are sadists," he said, "am I right?" He thought he saw Lopez's lip twitch upward. Dodge remained surly.

"How do you know this guy?" Lopez asked the doctor.

"He works at the teaching hospital," the doctor said tiredly, annoyed. "He's a prick."

"I see my reputation precedes me," House said. He couldn't recall pissing this guy off. He didn't even know who this guy was. "What did I do?" he asked casually, "piss in your cornflakes?"

"Worse than that," the doctor muttered angrily, trying to contain himself.

"Well, you're going to have to put a name with the face," House said. "Isn't that customary? Don't doctors usually, I don't know, _introduce_ themselves to the patient?"

"I'm Doctor Floyd," he said lowly.

House thought for a second. Then he had it.

"Pinky!" he said, smiling as much as his busted face would let him. "Now I remember you. How's tricks? Mind pulling this tube out of my nose? I'd do it myself, but," he pulled at the restraints, "I'm kinda tied up here."

Floyd growled something House didn't catch and moved on to another topic. "Your liver—" he started to say.

"I know all about my liver," House growled. This was neither the time nor the place and he knew for a fact that his liver wasn't bleeding, so Floyd had nothing to say to him about it.

"I'm sure you do," Floyd said, "but—"

"Doctor," the nurse cut in. She indicated to something below the bed.

"What?" House said nonchalantly. "Blood in the Foley?"

The nurse looked up, astonished, and nodded. Floyd only looked angrier.

"This is the part where I get to say, 'I told you so,'" House said. He turned to the cops. "As for you gentlemen, I'm afraid you'll have to wait a few hours to get your statement. I suggest you get some coffee, maybe take a nap, or—hey, you know what would be a good idea? You could go back out and catch criminals!"

"What the hell is he talking about?" Dodge said to the doctor.

House felt himself starting to fade, getting cold, everything getting louder around him. Right on time.

"Get a BP," the doctor snapped at the nurse. To the cops, he said, "He's bleeding internally."

"Hey," House said weakly as the nurse wrapped a BP cuff around his arm, "I told ya so." Things were fuzzy and thick around him. "And if you leave a sponge inside me," he whispered, passing out, "I'll…sue…your ass."

* * *

As a rule, Wilson didn't keep a phone in his bedroom. If it was important enough to get him up at night, he'd be paged, not called. So the phone rang downstairs four times before the machine picked up and Wilson slept on upstairs next to his wife.

* * *

**A/N:** A nasty place to leave you, I know. Sorry. Feel free to hurl things in my direction.

Also, I stole the 'House Diagnoses Himself' thing from Fox as well, which we'll see in episode twenty in a few weeks. Just to give credit where it's due. I bow to the writers.

Ivory Novelist – D00d, give us an update for Stumble already. I'm frickin' dyin' over here. Can't wait to see what happens! And yeah, kind of a mean way for Fox to end the season, but there it is… As for Wilson…well, that's coming up in the next chapter. ;)

bagira – Yup, House wanted a beating. He's literally begging for it. However, I must say that most of the good stuff in that chapter belongs to Fox, like the bacterial infection thing. Not mine. Even House screaming at the trucker to finish the job, not mine either. I was _so_ proud of the writers for that scene. It drips with angst and despair. They have enormous cajones to go out on that scene. I hope the network lets them keep it like it's written. The funny thing about this sides business is that they probably haven't even started filming this episode yet (filming wraps in early May, iirc), so who knows what the final cut will look like. The sides gave me a great deal to run with, though, as you can see. ;) The cops are mine. I thought that since House was digging his grave, he might as well dig it pretty deep. Plus, since House has assaulted an officer and there'll be a police report and all that, Cuddy and Wilson _really _can't ignore what he did. I plan to have fun with that…

Megan – Yeah, I know, that chapter was really harsh in terms of House asking for punishment. The six Vicodin thing is at least somewhat unrealistic; as I understand it, he wouldn't be able to move much less pick a fight on six Vicodin—no one would be able to. But if Fox is going to stretch things, I'll go along with them, hence the somewhat unrealistic beating. The rest of the fic will conform to the general rules of reality and physics. ;)

Reviews? Reviews? Anyone? Bueller?


	4. The Moon is Down

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.  
**Credits:** Thanks to Auditrix for helping me with the medical biznatch. It's still somewhat implausible, which is me being stubborn.

Lengthy A/N at the end with a transcription of the script sides.

* * *

**Four: The Moon is Down**

It was Saturday and Wilson didn't have to be up early for work, so he slept in. He would've slept in longer but the dog whined to go out at seven-thirty and Julie nudged him—it was supposedly _his_ dog, after all—and he got up. The morning was cool and he hissed at the dog to hurry up. He collected the newspaper and the dog and went back inside to make coffee and then spend the morning on the article he was writing.

If he could concentrate.

Stacy's appearance had stirred up House and House had stirred him up. He couldn't even speak to House yesterday, not after the shouting match they'd had Thursday afternoon. It wasn't as though Wilson didn't understand how difficult the situation was for House. He'd weighed that a few months ago when he'd agreed to meet with Stacy for dinner on that ill-fated night. The look on House's face when he'd spilled about why he couldn't make the Monster Truck Wet Dream…yes, he knew House didn't think he needed to be protected from anything, but the look on his face made it pretty damn clear that he did need protection, no matter what he thought.

And at that point, it had only been a consult with her—perfectly innocent except that it fell on a bad night. She'd explained over the phone that she was coming on behalf of her husband and that she didn't want Greg to know. As if she had to tell him that. He'd been there and he knew that things had gone about as bad as they could possibly go given that neither House nor Stacy intended to hurt each other. And he'd watched silently over the years as House struggled to deal with the aftermath. House never really had dealt with it—that was the disease behind the festering sore that had become his life. And being House, he didn't acknowledge it either. They didn't talk about Stacy at all. Until their dinner date three months ago, Wilson was sure it had been at least three years since he'd even uttered her name in House's presence. He didn't know what went on in House's head most of the time and when it came to Stacy, things were no different, but he imagined House spent the better part of his days trying not to think about her or any other hypothetical 'ifs' and 'maybes'.

But, damn it all, Stacy had done the right thing and had gone about doing it the right way. She'd been clandestine to spare Greg. Wilson appreciated that. At dinner, he could see how torn she was between the desperate need to help her husband and empathy for Greg. Wilson knew that she hadn't wanted to mess with him. She knew how hard things were for him (after Wilson had told her, but she'd imagined it pretty well, Wilson discovered; she did, after all, know him well). She wasn't out to hurt him. That was part of the reason he'd agreed that she should bring the case to House. He also knew House would be interested in the case purely as a case. But most of all, he knew that if she came back, it might force House to deal with the pain he still carried around like a cross every day, that made him swallow Vicodin like his liver wasn't about to fail and avoid forming new relationships like they'd kill him if he even tried.

That was what the whole dysfunctional business with Cameron had been about. Even though he'd taken Cameron aside and been about as threatening as he ever got to her, warning her to be careful around House and to be absolutely sure she wanted this, because she couldn't possibly know what she was getting into, he admired the depth of feeling she had for him and the sheer tenacity she displayed. He knew House's thoughts on the subject: Cameron was hot, she needed to grow up and get over herself, and as much as he tried to avoid admitting it, he felt something for her. Wilson knew that what House felt could only go so deep; House wouldn't allow himself to go past a certain level anymore. And that business had ended…well, like it had ended. Maybe things would be different once House got over himself and grew up too. Wilson, for one, hoped that having Stacy around, having House see that she had moved on and picked her life up, might help him.

Sure, Stacy hadn't lost nearly as much and, amazingly, she wasn't as sensitive as House was. She'd been House's first serious adult relationship. House had had plenty of flings and a few steady girlfriends before her, but nothing like the intensity and seriousness of the relationship he had with Stacy. If life hadn't screwed him over, House may have become a normal person with a kid bouncing on his knee, a house in the suburbs, and any job he wanted in the country. Of course, Wilson knew House never stood a chance of being 'normal,' not in any conventional way, not with his gifts and his drive, but he could've had it so much better than he had it now. Simply put, he could have been happy.

But that was an extreme version of how things could have gone. Wilson knew quite a bit about how what one intended to happen in a relationship didn't always happen like one intended it to; Stacy could have screwed him over and House could have just as easily screwed her over. Shit happened in relationships. But at least it would've been easier to assign blame and move on, and House wouldn't have been left with a crippling injury that had in no way been his fault. Wilson had never been entirely certain why Stacy had left, but one thing he did know was that it hadn't been the leg, not physically at least, and it hadn't been that she didn't want to give him the care he needed, and it hadn't been a host of other things that added up to, in short, him. It was something she felt bad about instead. It had been her, something in herself that she couldn't deal with. Wilson didn't know what it was, but it was what had driven her away. And House—House hadn't understood at all, nor did Wilson blame him. He'd thought he was going to die. Wilson had thought that too, though he'd hoped fervently that House would beat the odds. And once he'd lost everything and found himself still breathing, thinking, feeling, living—House had never gotten over it.

Wilson had hoped that time would help. He tried his best to help too. He'd agreed that Stacy could bring the case to House on the condition that he be given a little time to prepare House for it. But then Vogler had arrived and shot his plans all to hell, and then Cameron had started putting on the moves with abandon, and between running interference on the two, Wilson didn't have time to soften the blow. Suddenly the months had passed and there she was, file in hand, doing her best to be attentive to the fact that House was still hurting over her, but hurting herself over her husband. And House had been himself—sour, unruly, rude, and unapproachable—times ten. If House had acted like an animal with its leg caught in a trap ever since the infarction, growling at everyone who tried to help him, then he was acting like the same wounded animal now, except that he was cornered and surrounded by advancing predators. He'd been merciless to everyone, lashing out in all directions. And as much as Wilson understood what was going on, why House was acting the way he was, he knew that House had been driven to a point so desperate that he was either going to be captured and rescued or gnaw his leg off and escape. Captured and rescued entailed several enormous fights. That's what the detox bet had been about—one of the first enormous fights. But now everything was at a fever pitch.

And yes, Wilson had snapped on Thursday. He could only take it so long—House's stubborn insistence that he was fine, that he didn't need anyone's help. Wilson wasn't proud of it, the way he'd unleashed on House Thursday, but it was necessary. He'd said things that House needed to hear—things that he knew House had heard for a long time from Cuddy, but it was different coming from him and he knew that. And if House had sulked all day Friday, well, that was too bad. He'd needed to hear it from him for two reasons: Wilson was closer to him than anyone else and he trusted that Wilson would never hurt him. If House saw their fight on Thursday as a betrayal of that trust, well then, he needed to grow the fuck up and get over himself. And Wilson would do his best to see that that happened as painlessly as possible, despite the fight they'd had.

Wilson had come home Thursday angry and frustrated, cursing House for having borrowed his punching bag, and went out on a vicious five mile run. Then Friday…on Friday, every time he saw House, he'd seen anger and he'd known not to mess with him, that it was just too soon, that some days were worse than others for him and this was one of the bad ones. He hadn't called him last night—not because he didn't care, but because he knew it was still too soon. He'd pushed hard, harder than he'd ever pushed before, and he knew enough to back off for a little while so House could cool off. He'd call him this afternoon, because whether House liked it or not, they needed to have a serious conversation.

He sat down with a cup of coffee and unfolded the newspaper. He hated feeling this way. So helpless, so frustrated, so angry. It wasn't who he was. Only House could bring it out in him like this. He felt anger start burning in his chest and flipped to the sports page, trying hard to concentrate on the box score of the last Red Sox game and predictions for NBA playoffs.

The blinking red light of the answering machine caught his eye.

He hadn't heard the phone and they didn't often get calls in the middle of the night—well, not from people who'd leave a message. House never left a message—he'd page Wilson if it was really important—and Wilson's girlfriends all knew not to leave a message. So it must be someone for Julie. Anger flashed again in his chest, this time for a different reason, and he washed the mug out, getting ready to go upstairs to take a shower.

He was half-way to the staircase when the phone rang again.

* * *

**(Old) A/N:** What was up with ffnet today? I had this written and ready to post hours ago. Oh well. Tis nice of them to provide all of this for free as it is and I shouldn't complain. :)

bagira – Thanks. :) I likes my House all angsty. The sides for 20 totally tore me up. I can't _wait _for that episode. Backstory? Yes, please, I'll have some backstory! ;) I can't wait to write another absurdly long fic around it once it airs—provided we get some idea of where Wilson was when it was happening, since we don't see that in the sides, and I guess depending on how they portray Stacy. Ideally, that fic would be a prequel to this fic. :)

Re: the progress this fic is making. I'd thought I'd be a good little student and actually start working on the two papers I have due next week and the week after next ahead of time, but that has never once happened in all my years of school—I dunno, K-12 plus college plus one year grad school—long time to say the least. Also, when I started this fic, I only had a vague idea of where I wanted to go with it. Now that I've got the whole thing laid out in my head with lovely details and all that, it's going pretty fast. And thanks to Tom, one of my professors, who's skipping town and canceling class all this week, I have even less class than usual this week and significantly less reading than usual, so I've got the whole week to bang out fic before the weekend comes (because then I _really_ have to start on the papers). One neat thing, though, is that the paper for Tom's class is going to be about fanfic and fan culture, specifically that of House, so I guess I could call this "research" if I really wanted to. ;) He liked the mid-term paper I did on House fandom, so he's getting another paper in the same vein, just longer and with more theoretical mumbo jumbo brought in (doubt he'll mind). I love it when my hobbies and my classes/career intersect. :g:

As to the sides, I've transcribed the last page of the sides for 22 for you guys. They don't have 'Finish it,' but what they do have is pretty durn close to that. This is exactly what it says, down the grammatical error I've marked with a (sic):

(Ricky is the trucker, Tommy is the bartender; the text comes from the side for casting Ricky)

HOUSE:

Let me put this in a way even you

can understand: she can't love because

she's got twenty other johns.

House taps Ricky with the cane on the shoulder. Ricky gets in House's face.

RICKY:

I'll hit a cripple.

HOUSE:

(laughs)

With what? Look at your hands.

You got little girls' hands.

Ricky swings and punches House in the gut. But House doesn't drop. He almost pukes, but catches his breath. And, incredibly, wants more.

HOUSE (CONT'D):

You know, I read my horoscope

today. Said I had a good chance

to get my ass kicked by a big, dumb—

Ricky unleashes a dirty, wild alley-fighting attack on House's face. One brutal punch to the face after another.

And House just takes it.

HOUSE (CONT'D):

I got six Vicodin in me. Hit me again.

Tommy jumps over the bar and as he tries to stop Ricky (sic). But he's not strong enough to stop Ricky from punching House. Punch after punch. They keep coming.

And yet, House always staggers forward. For more.

HOUSE (CONT'D):

Do it.

Several other PATRONS rush Ricky and House—trying to separate them—one subdues Ricky, the other gets House in a headlock—

HOUSE (CONT'D):

(to patron, struggling)

No, no!

(to Ricky)

Hit me! Do it. Do it!

(to everyone)

He's not finished!

Off House, screaming, a mess, hurting, miserable, we:

FADE OUT:

END OF SEASON ONE

As you can see, they gave me a whole ton to work with. How could I _not_ run with it:)

Re: how this will be filmed and the veracity of the sides. Some people have pointed out that Fox may be yanking our chain with this side. It's certainly possible and one can never tell what the execs will make them throw out to keep their TV-14 rating or what script changes will be made on set, etc. The sides are, after all, called a "limited draft," which is far from being a final draft and even farther from being what ends up on tape, what gets past the editors, censors, and producers, and what ends up aired. So this fic is based around something that may or may not become "canon" (which is part of what my paper for ole Tom is about). I'm hoping they retain the general thrust of the scene, but as you can see, I've changed the lines myself to make them fit what I was writing better, so, eh, fics, texts, they're all ephemeral. But yeah, kudos to the writers for even suggesting this as an end to the season. (Although it is a rip off of how Six Feet Under ended their third (iirc) season. Nate goes to a bar and picks a one-sided fight with a big, burly guy in a similar way, though we don't fade with him screaming and miserable, but with him showing up at his old girlfriend's door; I find this scene more desperate than the scene from SFU personally and I like SFU a whole lot, so that's saying something).

Okay, kinda got diverted there. Needless to say, this show rocks all around, but especially when it comes to risk-taking, which is not something network television does well in general. So hoorah for Fox!


	5. The Sun is Up

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

* * *

**Five: The Sun is Up**

Cuddy didn't take many weekends off. Her job was her life, but even if it hadn't been, it would still require her to work longer hours and more days than most. But it was what she wanted. It was what she was good at. And most of the time, she loved it, or at the very least, enjoyed it a great deal. So she got up around eight most Saturdays and spent the better part of the morning at the office. Right now she was sitting in her bathrobe having a cup of coffee before she started the day, thinking things over.

Yes, she loved her job, but there had been, of course, rough patches here and there. Taking over the reins had been difficult—getting everyone used to the idea that she was the boss and implementing the changes she wanted to make. There had been some hard fights, too, with a variety of entities—unions, the government, the university, the town—that saw things differently and had a different agenda. She'd worked through them like a good administrator should: equitably and swiftly. And then Edward Vogler had shown up with a wad of cash and an obsessive-compulsive desire to create the hospital in his own image: an evil empire that was entirely at odds with what she believed in personally and professionally, yet one which was mitigated by said wad of cash.

Things probably would have been fine—everyone would've made the adjustment and carried on like always, if Vogler hadn't done what no one in his right mind should ever do: he'd pushed House and he'd pushed him hard. Of the many things House wouldn't tolerate, pushing was perhaps the one that made him recoil the most, and, as per Newton's law, he reacted by pushing back. And though they needed the money—what hospital _didn't_ need the money—it had been House who'd forced the board into making the right choice. Which remained so surreal that she'd find herself looking up from time to time to see whether the sky had turned purple or to pinch herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming.

House. If it weren't for him and his surprising ability to grow a conscience overnight, the hospital would still have loads of dough and an uncompromising businessman at the helm. Which would most probably have been to the detriment of the hospital. It seemed that nearly every major conflict—or, at least, the major conflicts that had gotten to her the most—involved House in some way. He liked to think that he could get away with anything, and he pretty well could, but that didn't mean he had to rub it in her face. And it certainly didn't mean he had to (or even could) rub it in Vogler's face. But he had. By himself. It was as if he'd suddenly become a superhero to Vogler's supervillain. Perhaps that was it. House just needed an equal and opposite force to react to in order for him to become a force for good. She shook her head at the comic book overtones of the whole thing. House would just _love_ it if he knew she'd ever thought of him as a superhero out of a comic book.

She wasn't much of a believer in the idea that one person could change the world—rather, it was more like many people doing many things which added up to something big which changed the world—but when it came to House, most of her beliefs went flying out the window and were subsequently hit by a bus and ground into the blacktop until they were no longer recognizable. He still got to her. He would probably always get to her. She liked to think nothing got to her. But House would always be different. He did that to people—to the small handful he'd deigned worthy of his daily attention, which usually came in the form of denigration—he changed them. He always had a profound effect, one way or another.

Look at Wilson. House and Wilson were a matched set—the embodiment of Plato's theory of the spirit whereby it was split when born into flesh and lived life to reunite with its other half. Sex, for Plato at least, had nothing to do with it. Nor did love, really, except in the fraternal sense. It was instinct. The idea of them sleeping together…well, she knew what House was like in that department, how he needlessly complicated things, and she couldn't imagine Wilson bearing it. Bearing House at work and as a friend was one thing. Having to _sleep_ with him, whether that meant sex or just sharing a bed, was another thing entirely. House was an extremely private person for all his blustering façade; she knew how much trouble he had with intimacy—not so much a fear of it as a total lack of understanding of it, as if he'd been born without that part of his brain. It would be cute, though, House and Wilson together, making a little home in the country with a white picket fence and swans or peacocks or some equally ridiculous animal parading around a koi pond. She smiled a little at the thought, pushing the swans aside. House and Wilson together. It _was_ cute.

But House wasn't ready for that. Odds were that House would never be ready for that. Watching him this week with Stacy, the little gestures he made and expressions he wore when he thought no one was looking—they were so telling, and she understood him much better now. That is, she'd always understood why House was so pissed off at the world, but she'd never really known on a visceral level how that felt. Seeing it acted out before her gave her a pretty good visceral understanding. Telling him her decision yesterday had been one of the worst things she'd ever had to do in the line of duty, so to speak. Her loyalty was to the hospital first. Hiring Stacy was for the good of the hospital. She was damn good at her job and a good lawyer who wasn't hell to work with was hard to find. Cuddy tried not to think about how young Stacy had seemed ten years ago just like she tried not to think about how precarious House's existence had been at that time, though she was reminded of that every time she looked at him, even when she was so mad she'd like to kill him herself.

He wasn't fragile, but if he were dropped one more time, she was sure he'd break. She'd been edgy yesterday when he'd walked so resolutely away after spending a good five minutes looking like he'd been shot. She'd nearly followed him, but what could she have said? That part of House's past had always been closed to her, even if she'd been a witness and a party to it. What had happened between him and Stacy…she wasn't even sure if Wilson knew all of the details. She'd nearly followed him anyway. He'd been hanging by a thread all week and she was worried that she'd seen it snap last night. But she wasn't his friend anymore. She was his boss, his colleague, one of his verbal sparring partners, and occasionally his doctor, but she'd long since ceased to be his friend. She couldn't have followed him in any of those roles. That was what Wilson was for.

But this entire train of thought was wrecking her day. She'd been sitting over an empty coffee cup for ten minutes now. She tried to think about something else—budget reports, conferences, anything that she had control over—as she went to take a shower. She didn't have much luck.

She'd just finished dressing and was about to leave for a quiet morning's work when the phone rang.

She answered it, wondering who it could be so early.

"Hi, Lisa, it's James Wilson." But it didn't sound like Wilson. Wilson didn't sound low and gruff and scared like this.

"Dr. Wilson," she said, surprised, "to what do I owe the pleasure?" She couldn't recall him ever calling her at home before, let alone at 8:30 on a Saturday morning.

His voice was tight on the other end of the line.

"I'm at Princeton General," he said. "I need you to get down here. House has done something incredibly stupid. He's—" Wilson cut himself off. She could practically hear him biting his lip on the other end.

Her gut tightened. She knew what the tone in Wilson's voice meant and she knew the answer to her next question before she'd formulated it.

"Is he okay?" she asked.

"No," Wilson said and immediately corrected himself, hesitant tone in his voice. "I mean, yes, he's—he _will be _okay, but—look, I don't want to talk about this over the phone. Can you come or not?"

"Yeah," she said, "I'll be right there."

There was a click on the other end and the line went dead. She put the phone down, shocked. The way he'd said it. She shook her head slowly, trying to process what he'd said.

She'd watched House walk away yesterday, so resolutely. She knew that whatever it was, it was big and it was ugly and it scared the hell out of her.

* * *

All things considered, House was doing well. Remarkably well for a man his age and in his condition who'd ingested so much poison. He'd come out of surgery with no complications and they were monitoring him closely in the ICU, concerned primarily with his head injury at the moment. Wilson hadn't been up to see him yet. He couldn't—he didn't know what to say. So he paced and waited for Cuddy to arrive.

When he'd answered the phone and a voice on the other end told him that House had been in a fight, assaulted a policeman, and was in the ICU after emergency surgery, he'd nearly dropped the phone and he'd had to work himself to a chair quickly or he would've dropped himself. He was House's next of kin. He got the call if House was in trouble. And House was in major trouble.

Physically, he'd be fine, of course. He wasn't going to have the greatest week or two, but he'd heal up. The bleeding wasn't too bad and they'd caught it early. He'd had a pint of blood and the labs they'd just drawn were looking good. The assessment of his mental status from the ER indicated that he was fine there as well—or at least that the concussion hadn't affected him. Even his leg—he'd somehow managed to do no damage whatsoever to it according to the preliminary examination. House's own guy would have to take a look at it to be sure, but Wilson wasn't worried. Not about House's leg anyway. Not about any other part of House's body. If Greg had been his patient, as a doctor, he'd be done by now. The rest, though. The rest wasn't something he could fix nearly as easily as stopping a bleed or setting a wrist.

The fact was that his best friend had ODed and gone psycho in a bar and he was now lying in the ICU, tied to the bed and on a suicide watch. Even the fact that he'd hit a cop wasn't worrisome.

No. What worried him was that Greg had done what he always feared Greg might do: he'd tried to kill himself. Wilson had always pictured him swallowing a bottle of Vicodin in his living room, though, not getting his ass kicked in a seedy bar. If that was really what had happened—the cops' story wasn't very detailed. Wilson made a mental note to check the bar out later and talk to some people.

Getting into a fight just wasn't Greg's style. So Wilson recognized this for what it was: an agonized cry for help. But House wouldn't see it that way. It was up to him—him and Cuddy—to make Greg see it that way. To do _something_ at least. That was why he'd called Cuddy. Right now, he felt paralyzed. He needed someone who cared about House, knew what the last week had done to him, and who was still reasonably objective. There was only one person in the world who fit that description.

He hoped she got here fast.


	6. And Things Fall Apart

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T.  
**Warnings:** Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.  
**Credits:** To my awesome beta, Auditrix, to Tom, my cultural studies professor, for canceling class this week so I have more time to write, and to the reviewers who focused on Wilson, which made me focus on Wilson and made this chapter much better than I'd thought it would be.

* * *

**Six: Things Fall Apart**

_Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;_

—W.B. Yeats, "The Second Coming"

Wilson paced a six foot line in front of the hospital's reception area. Step step step step step step turn. Step step step step step step turn. Back and forth, chewing on his left thumbnail as he went. He'd stopped biting his fingers when he was a kid and he didn't realize he was doing it now. He'd wonder later how his thumbnail got to be so gnawed.

The call had caught him completely off-guard. He'd been in boxers and an undershirt, fresh out of bed, and once he'd hung up and he was able to move again, he'd run upstairs and snatched the first pair of pants and shirt he came across, grabbed socks and shoes, pulling everything on as he ran back down the stairs, barely sitting to tie the shoes, and sped out of the driveway. So many things had been flashing through his head that he didn't realize until later, after he'd had a look at House's chart and labs, called Cuddy, and started pacing, that the raggedy old jeans and black Rolling Stones t-shirt he was wearing were Greg's, borrowed after some drunken night months ago. They were on top in the drawer because he'd been meaning to return them. He hadn't even thought as he grabbed them. He didn't think about them now, except to register who they belonged to and feel a brief stab at their significance. He wouldn't have a lot left if he lost House. But one thing he couldn't take right now was thinking about what this meant to him. He forced himself instead to think again about House and what to do with him. Because everything had changed last night. Everything.

Where was Cuddy? He was going to lose it if he had to wait much longer.

Step step step step step step turn. Step step step step step step turn. Step step step—he heard the unmistakable no-nonsense clack of her heels on the linoleum floor and turned to see her fast approaching, looking very concerned, and about as overdressed as he was underdressed.

"Where is he?" she asked immediately.

Wilson hesitated. This news was so big, so life-changing. It reminded him of every time he had to tell a patient they were going to die. If he could preserve the innocence of their not-knowing, he'd do just about anything. The burden of knowledge was heavy sometimes.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "He's in the ICU," he said slowly. At the look of panic on Cuddy's face, he snapped out of it. "He started a fight last night in a bar and got pretty beat up. They had to operate to stop some bleeding, but he's doing fine." Wilson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "He'll be fine."

She looked at him, reading his face. "That's not it," she said.

"He hit a cop," Wilson said, cringing at her cringe. "They arrested him, but he passed out and they brought him here."

She shook her head, eyes boring into him. "That's not it, either."

"You're right," Wilson said, rubbing his neck again and looking at the floor. He didn't think he could say it, so he produced a folder and handed it to her instead.

She took it and read. It was a tox screen time stamped late last night.

Of the three things she expected Gregory House to do one day, this was the one that frightened her the most. The other two—him doing further damage to his leg and him going on a shooting rampage—didn't concern her as much. This was the hardest one of those things to fix.

"He ODed," she said quietly, not looking up from the folder.

"Yeah," Wilson said, nodding his head, hand still on his neck. "He did."

She closed the folder and looked up at him.

He couldn't face her. "Let's…sit," he said and moved awkwardly toward a chair.

"You haven't seen him?" she asked, taking a seat across from him, noting how rattled he looked.

"No," he said, sitting forward and clasping his hands together, elbows on his knees. It was his consult posture. The serious consults. Not the ones House called him in on. Because if he thought of this as a consult, it was easier. "I wanted to see you first."

She nodded, understanding. If this was hard for her, it must be overwhelming for Wilson, though they'd both known it might happen at any time. But knowing it was a possibility and having it happen were two entirely different things.

"Did you see him last night?" she asked. She could feel it already. As with the infarction, she could tell that this was going to be another one of those things she'd always secretly blame herself for.

"No," Wilson said. They were both talking in hollow tones. "I went straight home." He paused, hesitant. "We…had a disagreement Thursday afternoon," he said, looking down again. "I didn't speak to him at all yesterday."

She could see this, also, forming: that Wilson would always blame himself for this too.

"Then you don't know," she said, searching his face when he looked up at her. She saw only confusion and weariness.

"Know what?" he asked, wishing that whatever it was, he didn't have to know. He knew too much already.

"I…spoke to him late yesterday afternoon about hiring Stacy back," she said slowly. She saw anger flash in Wilson's eyes for a millisecond before the mask was back in place. He was taking this very badly. "She said that she'd only come back if he approved of it, so I had to ask him."

"I see," Wilson said, tone clipped, chest tightening. Of course he understood. It was her job. What Greg had done made a lot more sense now. "Did he say yes?" he asked. He knew the answer already. What could he have said?

She nodded. "He did." Now it was her turn to study the floor. "But the way he took it when I told him—the way he looked, the way he left—I should have known."

"We both should've known," Wilson said, trying not to sound as dejected as he felt. "We did know. We just…didn't catch it." He looked up at her suddenly. "I don't think he meant it."

"What do you mean?" she asked, seeing the look in his eyes change, the mask falling away, despair creeping in.

"He wouldn't do it this way," Wilson said beseechingly, desperate for her to believe him but trying to keep the tone out of his voice. "He didn't plan this." Why couldn't he say it right?

But she understood. "I agree," she said. "But it doesn't change the fact that he knowingly and, I presume willfully, overdosed. We can't ignore it."

"I know," Wilson said. "I wasn't suggesting we ignore it. I was suggesting…" he trailed off, looking at the wall, and sighed. "I don't know what I was suggesting," he said. He looked back at her, his gaze piercing and utterly helpless. "I don't know what to do."

He was definitely taking this hard. She was starting to worry about him. She'd never seen him lose control like this before.

"Well…" Cuddy started, going into business mode, "we'll transfer him as soon as he's stable." She paused, then said with the kind of conviction that meant she was trying to get herself to believe it too, "Appadurai's good. She can handle him."

Wilson nodded. This was why he'd called her, because she knew what to do, and because he couldn't do this alone.

"He's got to deal with this," she continued, more sure of herself now. "I don't want him back at work until he does. It's not good for him and it's not good for the patients."

Wilson nodded again. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed. Why did his chest feel tight? Why was his throat closing up like he was about to cry? He fought it. If Cuddy didn't say something soon…

"Do you have his chart?" she asked carefully, keeping her tone neutral, not acknowledging the anguish she saw on his face. She knew it wouldn't help if she did.

"No," Wilson said, feeling better, less lost, less helpless, now that he had a question he could answer. "It's upstairs," he said, relieved that he didn't sound as shaky as he felt. "Why?"

"How bad is he physically?" she asked, tone calm, though it was painful to watch Wilson right now.

Wilson took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to get himself back under control. This kind of question he could handle.

"He's not great," he said. "Concussion, broken nose, broken wrist, a few broken ribs, lots of soft tissue damage," he ticked them off as if he were looking at a diagnostic dummy from med school. None of this applied to his friend. These were abstract broken bones in an abstract body. He needed to remain as clinical as possible if he was going to make it through the next few hours. "Nothing that won't heal."

He paused, looking at her, and realized what she'd been asking. "Knowing him?" he said, "he'd try to walk out of here tomorrow if he wasn't tied down."

God, that sounded bad. He felt himself starting to shake and his breathing quickened. He fought it.

She looked surprised, so he continued, "He was combative when they brought him in," he said, wondering why his chest felt tight again, "and one of the officers was adamant that he be restrained."

She was surprised, but not overly so. She'd seen the tox screen. But Wilson. He looked like he was falling apart.

"What have they given him?" she asked, lobbing him another easy one. She saw his hands starting to shake.

"They gave him a shot of Demerol before I arrived," he said, sounding shaky even to himself. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he get a grip? "I told them to be as conservative with the pain meds as possible."

Cuddy nodded. "I think that's best," she said, alarmed, but keeping her voice steady.

"Yeah," Wilson said, breathing really fast now, "but he's in pain." What was happening to him? His hands were tingling and he felt sick to his stomach. He put his head in his hands and leaned forward, looking at the floor and panting.

Cuddy was at his side in a flash, sitting on the edge of the chair to his left. "Wilson?" she said, grabbing his left shoulder, "are you okay?"

He tried to breathe, shaking harder, his feet starting to tingle. "Yeah…" he said, "I think…" But he didn't know. He didn't know.

And then he realized what it was and dropped his head, letting out a shaky laugh between pants. "Panic attack," he said, trying to slow his breathing now that he knew what it was. "God," he said between breaths, "I feel so stupid."

Cuddy moved her hand to the middle of his back and started rubbing in gentle circles, holding onto his shoulder with her other hand, feeling him shake and shudder and gasp for air beneath the thin material of the ancient t-shirt he was wearing. She had never seen him like this before. "It's okay," she said soothingly, "it happens."

"Yeah," he said, still shaking but breathing slower now, "but…I still feel stupid."

He took a deep breath and she felt him shudder under her hand. She looked away, trying not to notice that he was wiping tears out of his eyes.

They sat like that for a minute until she felt him stop shaking and get his breathing under control again. She gave him a final rub and squeezed his shoulder, then broke contact. She heard him say "Thanks" softly to the floor and smiled sadly.

Wilson felt like an absolute idiot. He knew he shouldn't, that if he was ever going to have a panic attack, now was the time, but he felt idiotic nonetheless. Having his boss rub his back in the middle of a panic attack was possibly one of the most humiliating scenarios he could imagine and it had just happened, tears and all. He wasn't used to this, to being on this side of the glass. It royally sucked.

He sighed and rubbed his face, feeling better but worn out now. He picked up the folder that had been sitting in the chair to his right and passed it to her.

"There's also this," he said, sounding steadier but still shaken.

She took it wordlessly and read it. She shook her head at what it told her and read it again.

After a moment, she said in disbelief, "He can't be doing that bad, can he?"

"No," Wilson said tiredly, still looking at the floor. "The numbers are skewed. I asked them to run it again, but I think it's pretty safe to say that he's in the early stages of liver failure." He paused, the bitter, metallic taste of fear in his mouth. "He must have known, too."

Cuddy nodded slowly to herself. She closed the folder and handed it back to Wilson, who tossed it back in the chair next to him.

She stood and went to the receptionist, asking for a cup. She filled it with water and brought it back to Wilson, who took it gratefully and sipped from it.

"It can wait," she said, professional and clinical again. "Right now, I'm going to go talk to his doctors." She paused, softening the next sentence just enough that it wouldn't hurt him because it was too soft or too hard, "Come find me when you're ready." She'd forgotten that she could be good at this.

Wilson nodded at the floor, still hunched forward in the chair, paper cup of water in his hand. She turned and he heard her heels clacking away on the floor.

He was such a fool. How would he ever be able to talk to House when he couldn't keep it together enough to talk about House?

He rubbed his face again with his left hand and drug his fingers through his hair, tugging at his scalp. He sat back in the chair, sprawling out, and took another sip of water. He hadn't had a panic attack since med school and it had only happened once then. He'd thought he was under control. He'd thought that then and he'd thought that until just now.

He remembered how he'd felt when Vogler'd motioned to fire him—how betrayed, how angry, how helpless. It was a lot like he felt now, but it wasn't about anyone's job this time. It was so much more serious than that now.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He felt better. He didn't realize how badly he'd needed a release. This week had been really hard. That, he supposed, was what he got for letting House borrow his punching bag. He smiled wryly. Fat lot of good it had done either of them.

He fingered the thin fabric of the shirt, looking down at it. Rolling Stones Steel Wheels North American Tour 1989 it read with a picture of the band instead of the usual giant red tongue. Nicely faded and worn, very comfortable. Maybe he'd keep the shirt to teach House a lesson. He smiled at that thought and finished the water, squeezing the paper cup in his hand as he stood. He gathered up the labs, threw the cup away, and walked toward the elevator.

He could do this.


	7. What is Forgiveness?

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T.  
**Warnings:** Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.  
**Credits:** To my awesome beta, Auditrix.

A/N at the end.

* * *

**Seven: What is Forgiveness?**

_What is forgiveness?  
It's just a dream.  
What is forgiveness?  
It's everything._

—…And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, "Another Morning Stoner"

Wilson ended up taking the stairs, tired as he was. A few flights, taking them slowly, was what he needed and he felt better by the time he reached the fifth floor.

Cuddy was still talking to House's doctor when he got to the ICU. She glanced at him in mid-sentence and he nodded that he was okay.

One of the nurses saw him and handed him a folder. House's liver test. He opened it. House was doing about like he'd expected him to be doing, though the results were still skewed. He needed to get off the Vicodin immediately. Wilson knew how that would go—the same way it went a few months ago with that bet between House and Cuddy that had been his idea. Drug addiction was no longer at the top of House's list of worries now, though. What he'd done last night made everything else insignificant.

Cuddy wrapped up her conversation and came over to him.

He handed her the file. She read it and nodded to herself.

"So..." Wilson said, "…what now?"

"I talked to his doctor about a transfer," she said. "He agreed to do it as soon as House is stable."

"About that," Wilson said. "I'm not sure if it's such a good idea. I know we've got better people, but word would get out. I don't think he could take that right now."

"Good point," she said, "but we can keep a closer eye on him on our turf with our people. As for his pride—he signed it over last night when he took those pills."

"That may be true," Wilson said, "but I don't think he needs this right now—he might shut down completely. We need to be able to get through to him and we need his trust for that. Give him a choice."

"Okay," she conceded. "Are you ready?"

He nodded.

A nurse went into the room before them. Cuddy squeezed his shoulder and gave him a brave smile. He tried to smile back before he pushed the door open.

* * *

House blinked against the steady beep of the heart monitor and tried to breathe. The shot of Demerol they'd given him an hour ago had begun to wear off, but when he'd asked for a top off, they'd refused. The loopy buzz of anesthesia had worn off hours ago, much faster than it should have, because they _insisted_ on waking him up every fifteen minutes to ask him the same dumb neuro questions. Yes, he knew who he was and where he was and when it was. What he also knew was that his body needed sleep to heal and that he wanted to sleep so he wouldn't have to think and feel, and his wants and needs were usually so out of tune with each other that he resented them for screwing this one time that they were in synch up. 

The first hour after surgery had been a pleasant haze punctuated by nudges and mumbles that were over quickly and let him ease back to sleep. One of the neuro checks in the second hour catapulted him into wakefulness and he looked around the room, annoyed, until everything came flooding back to him. He wheedled some ice chips and Demerol out of the nurse and grumbled about the TV until she turned it on and put the remote by his left hand. _He really should be resting._ Hmph. Didn't they get that having something to turn his attention to was better for him now than having nothing, which would turn his thoughts inward and cause him untold distress? But no matter. The TV was on and he was relatively comfortable, in and out of sleep, watching infomercials and answering neuro questions for some two or three hours.

The surgeon and anesthesiologist had looked in on him—he was fine, he felt okay, though he could use some more Demerol and a better cable package—and then an array of clear liquids appeared and the nurse was adjusting the bed and taking off the oxygen mask and then, to his everlasting chagrin, holding juice with a straw in it for him because the doctor didn't want his restraints removed. Not even one so he could hold the juice himself, the bastard. Yeah, the guy with the broken ribs, bum leg, and one hand out of commission who's also fresh out of surgery is going to sit up, undo his restraints, and walk out of there before anyone can catch him just because they let him have one hand free to hold the juice himself. Sure. Shit, he could barely move his head without getting dizzy and nauseous from the pain and drugs. They'd given him some crap about how he'd tried to yank out his NG tube when he'd come out of surgery and how he'd been struggling against the restraints when he slept, which indicated blah blah blah. Come the fuck on. They had a babysitter in the room with him, flipping through Cosmo, and even if she was doing her level best to ignore him, he wasn't exactly going to sneak out from right under her nose. This suicide watch crap. It was just that—crap. But they weren't listening when he said he hadn't meant it and since talking made his head and chest hurt, he did his best to grin and bear it, ignoring her like she ignored him, thankful he hadn't pulled a chatty sitter.

Then one of the cops from the night before had come in—the nice cop, what was his name?—and taken a statement. House was brusque even though the cop tried to be understanding. Why did he hit the officer? He didn't know. He was fucked up. Why did he resist arrest? The same. He didn't feel like explaining. He didn't even feel like reporting the robbery. The cop eventually left him alone and he went back to sleeping and waking and sleeping and waking, wanting very badly to tear the tube out of his nose, but no, he wasn't ready they said, he'd thrown up the juice earlier and, hey, he was a doctor, he knew what that meant, it needed to stay in for a while, but fucking come on, he was fine, his gut was fine, and the damn thing was so _uncomfortable_.

But no. No. They weren't listening. He should rest and give it time. No way. How could he rest with a tube down his throat, constant, annoying, bothering the hell out of him? It was simple: he couldn't. So he squirmed until he got tired, faded for a while, and started squirming again, and faded again, back and forth with neuro checks thrown in for good measure until they day shift came on. They'd bugged him for a solid ten minutes with all kinds of checks—vitals, pain, incision, neuro, the works—but he'd gotten another hit of Demerol out of it, enough to get him good and high for about half an hour this time, but it hadn't lasted, the buzz.

He was horribly awake, horribly able to think. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep for a long time, to stop thinking, but they wouldn't give him a top off. Said he was fine. Bullshit. He knew when he was fine, and he wasn't fine now. He'd drawn a day-shift sitter who laughed maniacally at every distinctly un-funny thing Matt Lauer said. She was ruining television for him. _That_ made him suicidal. His head hurt like a motherfucker. He _needed_ another hit of Demerol. No one should have to sit through this. He pressed the call button and waited, tugging idly at his left restraint to make the rail rattle and piss off the sitter.

The door opened and the sitter quieted down. A nurse came in and removed his oxygen mask. "You've got some visitors," she said.

Before he could get a word out, he looked up and saw Wilson, who looked shocked and pale and was…wearing his clothes? _What! Wilson! In my clothes!_ Maybe the concussion _had_ done some damage after all.

"What're you doing in my clothes?" he asked stupidly, blinking his good eye, wondering if he was dreaming. He automatically tried to reach up and rub his face with his left hand, pulling on the restraint instead. Dammit.

Then he saw Cuddy step in next to Wilson. Now he was definitely dreaming. Or maybe cracked in the head.

"What're _you_ doing here?" he said to her. This wasn't right. God, his head hurt. He wanted them to go away.

He looked back to Wilson, noticing the clothes he wore again.

"You haven't replaced me already, have you?" he said to Cuddy.

Cuddy gave him a small glare and turned to the sitter. "Could you leave us alone for a few minutes?" she said.

He heard the sitter get up and leave. He remembered the nurse. He looked at her, confused.

"This isn't why I called you," he said, "but they're real, right?" He indicated to Cuddy and Wilson with a slight nod of his head.

She nodded and he cursed inwardly. He had naively hoped that he would slip under the radar, or at least that he'd have the morning to himself. That he wouldn't have to deal with anyone until after he'd gotten some real sleep.

"O…kay," he said. "I need some more Demerol then. My head is killing me."

He tried to reach up with his hand again to rub his head and made the rail rattle again instead. He hit the mattress with his fist, frustrated, and the pulse-ox monitor slipped off his index finger.

Cuddy grabbed his arm, holding him still, and put it back on. "No," she said angrily, "no more drugs." She looked at the nurse, dismissing her.

"What!" he said as loudly and angrily as he could, which only made his head hurt more, and started tugging hard at the left restraint, accidentally elbowing himself in the ribs. "Aghh," he groaned, "why!"

"You just had 50 milligrams," she said. "That's more than enough." She was concerned. He looked like crap. But she needed to be firm with him now. And the way he was tugging leads off of his body—no wonder they had him restrained.

"It's not working," he grumbled, settling down and starting to sulk.

Then he realized something. "It's you," he said accusatorily, trying to point his finger and running up against the restraint again, "you told them not to give me anymore."

He didn't need to wait for her to nod.

"Why!" he said and tugged at the restraints again. "Dammit, can't you get them to untie me?"

Wilson snapped out of the daze he'd been in and rounded the bed, removing the restraint on House's left hand. House scratched his shoulder and rubbed his head.

"Thanks," he said to Wilson. "Now if you could take this tube out and let me go home, that'd be great."

Wilson was holding onto the bed rail with both hands. House saw his knuckles go white, though the pained expression on his face didn't change. "No," he said softly, not looking at House.

"What?" House said in disbelief. Wilson never said 'no' to him. What was going on?

"House," Cuddy barked, getting his attention back on her instead of Wilson. "You hit a cop? You _hit _a cop!"

"He was looking at me funny," House said lamely, scratching around the heart monitor leads. He wished the damn thing would quit beeping at him and he really wished it wouldn't give Cuddy and Wilson such a plain indication of how aggravated he was. He glowered at her and started working on the other restraint.

"They want to take you to jail for assault," Cuddy said, one notch below yelling, "Do you have any _idea_ what that means?"

House did his best to shrug. "First time offender," he said. "Slap on the wrist, maybe a fine. You get to use that legal budget you've got for me at last." He got his right arm free and bent it—yeah, that felt good—finally resting it carefully against his hip, a little closer than he'd like to the incision site. Now if he could just get this damn tube out…

"You don't just assault an officer and get away with it," Cuddy growled.

"It was dark," House said, "I couldn't tell he was a cop." He started toying with the tube, wondering if he could turn the suction off from where he was.

"That's not what the police report says," she said. She noticed him messing with the tube. "Stop that," she said, "or I'll tie you up again myself."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," he said sullenly and dropped the tube, resting his hand delicately on his chest instead. He needed to stretch so badly. The mattress was hard as a rock.

Cuddy was still staring at him. Oh, the cop, right.

"He hit me first," House said. He rubbed his head again. "I barely touched him and he gave me a concussion—_he's_ the one who should be arrested."

"The report says you attacked him and called him a, and I quote, 'fucking pig'," she said, spitting the last words out at him.

"But there weren't any witnesses," House said, annoyed, wishing she would just drop it. "His word against mine."

"Yeah," Cuddy said angrily, "and you were so drunk they had to pump your stomach."

House rolled his eyes—his good eye. "Look," he said, "it happened really fast and I said I was sorry." He clutched at his ribs with his good hand. All this talking was making them ache horribly. "Can you get me some pain meds or leave or _something_," he groaned. "God, this hurts."

"Serves you right," she said, "for picking a fight in the first place."

But her heart tugged. If she didn't know he was drugged the gills already, she'd be out the door and drawing the meds herself right now. He looked that bad.

"How do you know I started it?" House said flippantly.

And then he said something like that that let her know he was fine. That he was whining because he wanted a fix.

"You always start it," she said tiredly.

"Yeah, well, I had a pretty damn good reason," he mumbled and rubbed his head again.

"Okay, yeah, you did," she said grudgingly. "I'll give you that. But there are better ways of dealing with this." She sighed. "What did you think getting yourself beaten up and arrested was going to accomplish?" she asked.

"It made me _feel_ better," he said snidely. It wasn't that far off from the truth. But they didn't need to know that.

"So you feel better now, like this?" she said, exasperated.

She knew she was pushing him in an area he didn't need to be pushed in right now, but dammit, she was angry. And Wilson. He hadn't moved from his place next to House. His hands were still on the bed rail and he was staring at something below the bed. He looked like he was going to drop. He looked up at her when the conversation lapsed into a pause.

House saw Cuddy and Wilson exchange a series of glances that ended in a slight nod from Wilson. Cuddy drew herself up to leave.

"I'm going to go talk to the police about getting the charges dropped," she said. "You're lucky he gave you a concussion. I'd let you go to jail if he hadn't."

"You would not," he said, but she was out the door before he could get it out. Just as well. All that yelling had left him tired and hurting. But Wilson was still here. Maybe he'd give him something.

Wilson pulled up a chair and sat down next to House, slouching, not sure he could do what he had to do.

House looked horrible. His face was stitched up, bandaged, bruised, and swollen, one eye nearly swollen shut, tissue around his nose swollen from where it had been broken. He could tell through the gown and the way House wasn't breathing deeply enough that his ribs were wrapped, and then there was the dressing over the surgical incision. His right wrist was splinted and the knuckles bruised. And all of the paraphernalia that he was tangled in—EKG leads, NG tube, IV, pulse-ox monitor, Foley—was disconcerting to say the least. But his face was by far the worst. Wilson could barely stand to look at him. It was painful. He breathed deeply and tried to get a grip on himself.

House watched him out of his good eye. He didn't like what he was seeing. When Wilson was reticent, it meant something was wrong. Really wrong. And since he knew exactly what that something was, he wasn't terribly interested in hearing whatever lecture Wilson had prepared for him. But he couldn't very well get up and leave, so he waited, feeling anger and anxiety come and go in waves.

"So," Wilson said after a while.

"So," House repeated, not knowing what else to do.

"Why'd you do it?"

House looked away. "You know why," he said testily.

"Maybe I do," Wilson replied, voice even, restraining himself. "But I want to hear you say it."

"What, because admitting it is the first step?" House said sarcastically, eyeing Wilson. "Bullshit."

"No," Wilson said, anger sliding into his voice, sitting up the chair, "because I need to hear you say it. I need to know."

"You need to hear me say what? that it's fucking hard, having her back? that she's so close and so far away I can't stand it? is that it?" House slammed his fist down on the mattress in frustration and the pulse-ox lead came off again, "Well there, I said it."

He winced, his head hurting, and tried to put the lead back on, gasping as the movement made his wrist radiate pain. He sucked in air and gasped again when that made his ribs hurt. Wilson put the monitor back on his finger and House yanked his hand away.

"Either get me some pain meds or get the hell out," he snarled.

"That's not it," Wilson said lowly, cold anger in his voice.

"What do you want!" House yelled, groaning against the pain from his ribs. "It was hard, okay?" he said, softer this time. "It was just hard…I couldn't deal with it anymore," he said quietly. "It was too hard."

Wilson laughed bitterly. "And you couldn't pick up the phone and tell me?" he said.

"We weren't speaking, if you recall," House said, frustrated. His ribs hurt. And his head. And his wrist. He didn't want to do this.

"Still," Wilson said, a bitter, angry edge in his voice. "You couldn't call me? You had to take a handful of pills and get the shit kicked out of you instead?"

"It wasn't like that," House said. "I didn't…mean it. I didn't…plan it. It just sort of happened."

Wilson stared hard at him. "'It just sort of happened'?" he repeated caustically. "Things like this don't 'just sort of happen'. Dammit—what were you _thinking_!"

House sighed, genuinely contrite. "I…just…it…it just got out of control," he said softly. "I'm…sorry." The last word was barely a whisper.

"And you think that fixes it?" Wilson said angrily. "That you just get to get away with it and come back like nothing happened?"

House didn't say anything. Wilson stood and started pacing aggressively. He could feel himself shaking, tears in his eyes threatening to run down his face.

"Goddamn it, Greg, you tried to kill yourself!" he shouted. "I—we—can't ignore that."

"I didn't try to kill myself," House said quietly. It really bothered him, seeing Wilson like this. "I was just tired of it."

"Like hell you didn't," Wilson said, "You knew exactly what taking that much Vicodin meant. You fucking knew and you did it anyway. And if you hadn't gotten in a fight, you'd be dead now. You'd be fucking dead. Is that what you wanted? Is it? Does our friendship really mean so little to you that you'd throw it all away over this—over her? She's back, it sucks, but is it worth your life? Jesus Christ, Greg, why? Why did you do it?"

"I just couldn't take it," House said. "If you're going to yell, the least you can do is let me have something for my head."

"No," Wilson growled, "no. You're not going to hide behind drugs anymore. It's killing you and it's killing everyone around you."

"Now you're just being melodramatic," House said, rolling his eyes.

"I'm being melodramatic," Wilson repeated. "You know you're liver's failing," he said. House had the good sense to look surprised. "Yes, I know—we know," Wilson continued. "The ER guy ran the test and I just had it re-run. The numbers don't lie. But you do. You must've known about it for a while now."

House looked away. He had known. For a few months.

It was all the acknowledgement Wilson needed.

"You couldn't tell me?" Wilson said, "Or Cuddy? So we could get you treated, or on the transplant list if it's necessary? You couldn't do that, that one simple thing? I—we have to find out like this!"

"It's not about you, okay?" House shouted, banging his fist on the mattress again. "Maybe I don't want a new liver. Did you think of that?"

"So, what?" Wilson said, exasperated. "You want to die instead? You want to just give up?"

"No," House said angrily. "I just don't want to be sick for the rest of my life. And if I told you, you'd make me go off the Vicodin and try a bunch of alternatives that don't work, have never worked, will never work, and ruin the good years I have left. If I'm going to die, I'm going to do it on my terms, okay?" He paused, trying not to breathe so fast. "I don't want—I don't want to die. I just don't want to be in pain all the time. And you and Cuddy—you think that there's some miracle treatment out there that I'm overlooking—well, there's not. Okay? There's not."

"What do you know about that," Wilson growled. "You haven't tried anything in years."

"Yes, I have," House said grudgingly. "That week in Bermuda two years ago and the two weeks in Vegas before that?" Wilson nodded. "I never went to Bermuda or Vegas."

"What'd you do," Wilson asked. He'd stopped pacing and stood, hands on his hips, squared and facing House now.

"Rapid detox," House said. "I tried the latest things. They didn't work."

"And…and you didn't tell me?" Wilson said, angry, hurt, disbelieving. "I could've helped. I could've been there." He rubbed a hand over his face. "And some of those therapies, you're not going to see results in a week. It takes months."

"I don't have months," House said.

"You could," Wilson said hopefully, trying to convince him. "You could. If you'd just— At this stage—"

"No," House cut him off. "No. I don't want to."

"Okay…" Wilson said. He realized that arguing over this now wasn't doing either of them any good. "But—if you were doing this and not telling anyone—why'd you take that bet a few months ago with Cuddy? Why'd you do it if you knew all this already? Why subject yourself to it?"

"Because doing that was easier than doing this," House said tiredly. "It's my problem and I'll deal with it myself. I am dealing with it."

"Yeah, cause you're so great at dealing with things," Wilson said bitterly. "You couldn't talk to me or Cuddy or—_her_—last night. You had to do this instead. Yeah, you're just great at dealing with things." He paused. He just couldn't give up so easily. "You can get better," he said plaintively. "It's still early. There's still time. We'll start you on something with a lower acetaminophen level that's not so hard on your liver and—"

"Save it for your chemo patients," House growled. "If I do what you want me to do, I won't be able to do my job. I don't have a lot left as it is. I can't stand to lose that too."

"You could still work," Wilson said, close to pleading. "You could still take cases. You've got a great team. They can do everything but the thinking and you're training them pretty well to do that, too."

"I just don't want to be sick," House said tiredly. "It's not too much to ask." He was starting to shake with pain and anger and exhaustion. "Look, I can't do this right now. I've been up all night—they won't let me sleep—and I feel like crap. Either you're going to keep yelling at me until you feel better and then go high-five Cuddy for being Mr. High and Mighty or you're going to help me by getting this damn tube out of my nose and getting them to clear me so I can get some sleep, but whatever you do, do it fast, cause I can't take much more of this." He shuddered and ran a shaky hand over his good eye. The heart monitor told them both he was more agitated than he should be.

"Okay," Wilson said softly. "I'll talk to your doctor." He started to leave. "Put the mask back on. Your sats are dropping."

Wilson left and the sitter came back in, eyeing him nervously now that he wasn't restrained anymore. He closed his eyes and breathed in the oxygen, feeling the Demerol smooth the edges of the pain. Of course he knew that Wilson and Cuddy were right, that he didn't need any more Demerol yet. But he wanted it. He was so tired. He wanted to feel good again and to go to sleep and above all, he didn't want to think about anything he'd just heard or said.

He was nearly asleep when the nurse came back in. She did a neuro check, moved the mask, and gave him some more juice to see if the tube was ready to come out. He kept it down and she went away, leaving the rest of the juice with him.

When she came back, Wilson was with her. He had something with him, which he put in the chair, and then called the sitter out into the hall as the nurse took the tape off of the tube. He was grateful to Wilson for having the decency to limit the number of witnesses.

She pulled the tube out and he gagged and coughed and choked and held his ribs and groaned, but he was glad to have it out, even the removal of it left him dizzy and hurting. She was hanging another drip when Wilson came back in.

"I'll sit with him," he said quietly to the nurse and went around the bed to the chair. House tried to pretend he hadn't heard that.

"What's that?" House asked the nurse, pointing to the drip.

"Vistaril," Wilson answered. The nurse finished and left.

Wilson held up two cups of jello. "You want some of this?" he asked, opening the first cup.

"No," House said, annoyed. "I want some Demerol. My head hurts. I'm tired."

Wilson bit back a reply: _You're jonesing_.

"Give it half an hour," he said instead, pointing to the drip with his spoon. "If it still hurts then, I'll get you something."

House sighed and rolled his good eye. He drank a little more juice and watched Wilson scarf down the first cup of jello.

"Since when do you eat jello like that?" House asked, bothered by the fact that Wilson was going to baby sit him now. "You look like a pig."

"Since I got a phone call right after I woke up and skipped breakfast," Wilson said, attention focused on the television. "This is good—you sure you don't want any?"

"No, thanks, jello's not _that_ good," House grumbled.

Wilson shrugged and tore into the second cup.

House felt the Vistaril relax him and tug him toward sleep. As he dropped off, he blearily hoped Wilson had gotten him cleared and that he wouldn't have to face anymore annoying neuro checks.

Wilson watched him fall asleep, pulse and resps evening out with the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He leaned over and put the oxygen mask back on House's face. House stirred a little but went right back down. Wilson would give him thirty minutes before he did a quick neuro check. In the mean time, he settled back in the chair, hands tented over his face, and watched House sleep, thinking.

* * *

**(Old) A/N:** I'm afraid this is going to be it for a while on this fic. I can't put my blasted papers off any longer, so it'll be a week or two before there's another update on this fic. I'm going to try to update Intervention once more before the paper-writing hiatus, but this is definitely it for this fic. Sorry! Stupid papers! 

Ivory Novelist – Thanks. Fox could not have served me up a better episode to write from in terms of Wilson angst. Eagerly awaiting more of "Stumble". :)

bagira – Yeah, the liver failure's from the Vicodin (and the boozing). Vicodin's got acetaminophen in it and acet.'s rough on the liver. Taking so much of it for so long (at least eight years going by the show's timeline) will tear up anyone's liver. I'm not going to focus on it in this fic, despite what happened in this chapter—I just wanted to toss it out there.

Re: Wilson angst. Sorry! I know it's rough. I'm just no good at writing anything else. Re: Wilson/House – welcome to the fold (Mwahahahahaha!), though this won't get slashy. I've read a few House/Cameron fics that have welcomed me, however grudgingly I go, to their fold, so I guess I'm returning the favor. ;)

Re: ducklings. They're going to be kept pretty much out of this. They'll know he got himself beat up in a fight, but they won't know about the pills. I'm not sure if I'll do anything else with them—I really need to see where the show is going with the House/Cameron business first in terms of figuring out how involved any of them might be with House's personal life at this point (I'm thinking not too much once Stacy shows, but one never knows).

Re: blood in the Foley. 'Foley' is shorthand for a Foley urinary catheter, a small plastic tube with a balloon on the end that goes up the urethra and empties the bladder when inflated. Blood in it is equivalent to peeing blood, which indicates internal bleeding (in this case). That's all that meant. It's a chapter title because I suck at chapter titles. ;)

Other medical stuff:

pulse ox/sats a pulse ox monitor, which is a little thingy that's clamped to your index finger and glows red which makes you look like E.T., checks the amount of oxygen saturation in the blood and 'sats' is short for saturation – when the sats drop, it means the patient isn't getting enough oxygen and, in House's case, needs an oxygen mask.

NG tube nasogastric tube, or a tube that's put into your stomach through your nose – in this case it's used to suck air out of the stomach until the gut wakes up from anesthesia, because the gut takes longer than everything else to wake up. If the patient pukes when the suction is turned off or after s/he's given something to drink, the gut's not awake and the tube stays in. If the patient doesn't puke, the tube's ready to come out. (thanks to Auditrix on that one – I didn't know any of that before she told me)

Demerol a wicked awesome opiod given for moderate to severe pain, similar to morphine, which acts a lot like heroin in that it makes you feel like nothing in the universe matters. It's much stronger than Vicodin and (I'm guessing) much more addictive. My personal favorite drug on the planet. ;)

Vistaril a benzodiazepine used for anxiety and (as Aud tells me) mild sedation and to combat nausea and vomiting. Also addictive. Also makes you feel gooooood like Vicodin and Demerol.

Rapid detox what House should've done in "Detox"; basically, patient is put to sleep and given drugs to clear out the system and control withdrawal. Takes about two days for the patient to get clean and is considerably less painful than detoxing cold turkey. Done in an ICU clinic specifically designed for rapid detoxing. It'd be a fast, easy way for House to get clean before he tried other pain management options.

I think that's it. Let me know what you think…


	8. How Near, How Far

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T+ for language and medical squick.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.  
**Credits:** To my awesome beta, Auditrix.

* * *

**Eight: How Near, How Far**

_I don't feel  
and it feels great_.

—Modest Mouse, "Trucker's Atlas"

"Greg. Wake up."

It was Wilson again. _Again_. For the umpteenth time.

"Uhhhnn," House groaned sleepily.

"Wake up," Wilson repeated.

Except for the beep of the heart monitor, the room was totally quiet. He'd been sleeping so well. Damn Wilson and his damned neuro exams. Pain from his injuries was starting to flare up again, but if Wilson would just leave him alone, he knew he could go back to sleep.

"House. Hospital. Saturday. Sleepy. Go away," he mumbled. Maybe Wilson would be satisfied with that and would skip the pupil check and hand squeezing.

"Get up," Wilson said forcefully. "Lunch."

"Tell em to bring it back later," House said. He didn't want lunch. He wanted to sleep.

Suddenly there was a click and Wilson had his good eye open and was trying to blind him. House's hand flew up to knock Wilson's hand and the light away.

"Oww, dammit, okay, okay, turn the light off," he said. He rubbed his eye and blinked against the spot it left in his vision. "Be careful with that thing," he grumbled, wide awake now. He rubbed his head—the light had made it hurt—and looked over at Wilson.

Wilson was wearing scrubs. "The Stones aren't good enough for you?" House said.

"I looked like a roadie," Wilson answered, putting the penlight in his shirt pocket.

"You looked like you were in college," House said. Wilson gave him a wry smile. "And you didn't want to run with that? Handsome, mature college boy? You'd be fighting them off with a stick." Wilson started adjusting the bed to House could sit up. "Nevermind, you're already fighting them off with a stick—ahhhowww, that hurts," he breathed as his body protested against movement.

"I'm not in the mood," Wilson mumbled. House had his face scrunched and his heart rate had kicked up. "I'll get you some Demerol after you eat," he said and started uncovering dishes and putting straws in containers.

House settled into the pain and opened his eyes again. Soup, milk, juice, jello. "Liquid lunch," he said in disgust, "no thanks."

"Can we skip this part?" Wilson said tiredly. "You know you need to go easy right now."

"Yeah, well, I don't have to like it," House grumbled. He didn't move to pick anything up.

Wilson sighed. "Chocolate, chicken, apple, and whatever flavor red's supposed to be," he said. "It was the closest they had to what you like. The sooner you eat, the sooner you get some meds."

"All right, all right," House said and picked up the milk, taking a sip. "Why are you so cranky?"

"Long morning," Wilson muttered.

"I smell hummus," House said, sniffing the air around Wilson. "You're holding out on me."

Wilson didn't say anything. He picked the remote up and turned to ABC just as General Hospital was starting: House's pacifier. He sat back in the chair and watched House set the milk aside, try to spoon the soup with his right hand, wince, and try again with his left hand all while not taking his eyes off the television. At least he was eating and not fussing. He really was just one very big baby…and he knew how to get the childproof caps off too.

Wilson sighed inwardly. House looked fine. Normal. Well, except for wounds. It would be so easy to let things slide back into the familiar pattern. House was already trying to do that—to get back to the playful banter that defined their friendship. Easy. Uncomplicated. Wilson wanted things to go back to the way they were too. He wanted it very badly. He'd struggled with it all morning while Greg had slept, the heart monitor reminding him that the situation demanded immediate and unwavering attention, trying to figure out what he'd do. He needed to talk to Cuddy again, to get her ideas. The only thing that was clear to him right now was that he didn't need to try to do this alone. She hadn't come back yet, so he assumed she was still negotiating with the police.

The show went to commercial. House was working on the apple juice now, making good progress.

"Well," Wilson said soberly, "you're doing well."

House gave him a side-long glance. He didn't like that tone and he didn't like the fact that Wilson had started with something he knew already. It made him very suspicious. And he wanted some hummus or a nice steak instead the poor excuse for cream of mystery meat and/or vegetable he'd just finished.

"Labs came back half an hour ago," Wilson continued. "Everything's looking good. Roberts wants one more neuro exam, but you should be cleared for release into the general populace in about an hour."

House finished the juice, eyeing Wilson warily. "What are you not telling me?" he said.

Wilson opened the jello. He had to admit, House was doing a good job of cleaning his plate. Maybe he'd meant what he said this morning. Maybe this had all been one very big accident. But Wilson couldn't afford to not take this seriously—well, House couldn't afford it, which meant Wilson couldn't afford it either if he wanted to live with himself.

"Cuddy wants to transfer you," he said, putting the jello down in front of House.

"No! No way! Not happening!" House yelled, wincing and grabbing his ribs.

Wilson nodded. "That's what I thought you'd say," he said.

House held his ribs, trying to get his breathing steady again. "And…?" he said impatiently.

"And I told her to give you the choice," Wilson said. "You can stay here and go to psych until they release you or you can be transferred to our general ward and looked in on by Appadurai until she releases you. I think you should go with door number two."

"What about door number three where I sign out AMA and go home?" House griped.

"You try that and you'll end up involuntarily committed in our psych ward," Wilson said, rubbing his face. "Bad idea. You don't want to mess with Cuddy right now."

House stabbed the spoon awkwardly at the jello with his left hand, knocking over the cup in the process. He stared at it. "And you and Cuddy—you expect me to roll over and take this?" He sighed angrily and leaned back. Suddenly lunch wasn't sitting too well. He didn't notice when General Hospital came back from commercial.

"I know you don't like it," Wilson said gently, "but it is your fault."

"I think I'll stay and go to psych," House said sullenly, poking at the jello again.

"You know psych is a hellhole," Wilson said, trying not to push too hard but still be convincing. "And you know we've got better people."

"People talk," House said. He chased the jello around on the tray and then tossed the spoon aside angrily.

"They do," Wilson allowed. "But we could start some really cool rumors." He tried to smile.

"That would be fun," House said with a small smile that faded as soon as it arrived, "but…I can't be that near her right now."

"She could show up here just as easily as she could there," Wilson said.

"That's not true and you know it," House growled.

"Okay, maybe it isn't, but do you really want to do time in psych?" Wilson said. "This is a small town and an even smaller network of hospitals. Word will get out eventually. It's easier to spin if you're not locked up in psych. All we have to do is say you had a car accident. Or, hell, why not, we could tell the truth and say you got into a fight. No one would have trouble believing that. And then there wouldn't be any records of you as a psych patient."

"I need to think about it," House said. He looked at the tray of empty containers in front of him. "I ate. Make with the meds."

"Fair enough," Wilson said and stood. "Give me a pain rating."

House thought about it. The Demerol had definitely worn off. He was hurting in all the usual places. "Eight," he said, hedging his bet.

Wilson looked askance at him, arms crossed over his chest.

House sighed. "Okay, seven," he said.

Wilson kept looking at him.

"Fine," he growled, "six."

Wilson didn't move.

"Five point nine—it's a six, okay?—get to it. Six isn't exactly comfortable." He rubbed his ribs for emphasis.

"You seemed fine earlier," Wilson said evenly, arms still crossed.

"I have a high tolerance for pain," House said. "You know that. My six is most people's eight and half."

"You seem fine now," Wilson said in the same tone.

"You're pushing it up to a seven," House muttered. When Wilson didn't move right away, he snapped, "I did what you asked me to do. Come on!" The effort made his ribs spike pain and he grabbed them, groaning and gasping. "Definitely a seven now," he breathed.

Wilson gave him one last hard look before he opened the door and called a nurse over.

House settled back and tried to concentrate on the show. He hadn't been lying. The pain had been creeping up on him since Wilson woke him up, but he wasn't a complainer by nature. He was trusting that Wilson knew that and would factor it in. Maybe he was wrong to trust Wilson…but…whatever. He didn't want to think about it. He pushed the tray aside and carefully drew his left leg up, trying to ease the pressure on his lower back, stopping a few times when it made his ribs and abdomen pull. His whole body was sore—it wasn't used to being still for so long. The catheter pulled at his penis and he adjusted it through the gown. Wilson was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, attention turned to the television.

"What about getting the Foley out?" House asked, rubbing his left thigh. It had worked hard to keep him on his feet last night and massaging the muscles now felt good. He could tell he'd pulled something. Damn. He kept rubbing the muscles. His right thigh hurt a lot more but he didn't want to touch it.

"You shouldn't be moving around yet," Wilson said without taking his eyes off the television. "Tomorrow."

House sighed. "I'll…use a urinal," he said reluctantly. He hated to concede to this, but he hated Foleys more. The Foley was too invasive and too much of a reminder of the infarction and helplessness.

Wilson glanced at him and then back to the TV. "Okay," he said. "This afternoon."

"How about now?" House said impatiently. He eyed his lap, still rubbing his leg. He could get it himself if….

Wilson turned to look at him squarely this time. "You still sleepy?" he said directly.

House heard his tone and his eyes snapped up to meet Wilson's. Wilson had seen him considering it. Well, it wasn't like he'd be left alone to do it any time soon. "Yeah," House said, "a little."

"I don't have to remind you that you just had a lunch through a straw," Wilson said. House rolled his eyes and looked away, annoyed. He knew where Wilson was going with this. "You want it to wake you up or you want a few hours of uninterrupted sleep?"

"I thought you said what's-his-name wanted to transfer me," he groused.

"He does," Wilson said. "He'll be here in a little while to give you a final check, but you know how long a transfer can take." House looked doubtfully at him. "They're stacked up right now. Something involving fireworks, gasoline, and a golf cart. I'll tell you the story once I hear it, but it'll be a few hours before everything's squared away, so grab a nap and I'll get them to pull the Foley once you're settled." He paused and turned his attention back to the television. "I'm going to need an answer on where you want to end up soon. The default is that you come to us, so don't fall asleep before telling me if you don't want that to happen."

"If I agree to go, can we put an end to this suicide watch crap?" House asked, easing his leg back down. Wilson was right. He was starting to get tired.

"No," Wilson said, attention back on House. "Not until you're cleared by the shrink." House started to protest but Wilson cut him off. "It'll go much faster with us," he said, "Cuddy will get Appadurai right on you and she doesn't put up with any nonsense. If you don't need it, she'll probably have you cleared by tomorrow morning. Whereas, I don't know anyone on staff here in psych—it could take longer. And you'd be in the psych ward."

"Don't you think it'll look suspicious if the head of psych starts hanging out in my room?" House said.

Wilson tried to smile. "We'll have her bring a deck of cards and Cuddy can bring some poker chips. It'll look like we're playing some absurdly high-stakes round of Texas Hold 'Em. That's enough to satisfy the rumor mill for a few days and if you cooperate, you could be out by then."

"You and Cuddy are not going to be there," House said vehemently. "I'm as entitled to confidentiality as anyone else."

"This would be for appearance's sake only," Wilson clarified.

"What, you and Cuddy sneak off and then the whole hospital thinks I'm in love with the head head doctor?" House said. "That's _just_ what I need."

"It's better than the alternative," Wilson said mildly.

House had to give him that.

"But what about Cameron?" he said. "I won't have a moment's peace once she finds out."

"You'll be fine," Wilson said dismissively. He'd watched the whole date debacle carefully and thought House had handled both it and the fallout from it well. "I thought she was over you."

"I thought so too, but you've seen the looks she's been giving me since—" his voice broke and he hesitated "since—she returned." He stared ahead blankly for a moment, then shook himself out of it. "It's the wounded bird syndrome all over again."

"I'll talk to her," Wilson said.

"Yeah, you really did a great job of talking to her last time," House grumbled. "Don't look so surprised," House said at the look on Wilson's face, "you should know by now that I have my sources. But don't expect me to start paying you for protection unless I can get a full recess, lunch, and after-school package. And if I get so much as one teddy bear or bunny rabbit—"

"I get it, I get it," Wilson said, waving a hand. Then, hopefully but not too hopefully, "So…you'll do it?"

House sighed. "Yeah, I guess so. But I get to go in with a paper bag over my head."

"That'll attract even more attention," Wilson said. "You know that doctors don't actually notice patients. Well, everyone but you and you only notice them when you want to."

"It's not the doctors I'm worried about," House said. "It's the nurses. They see everything and once they start talking it's like someone threw a rock at a bee hive."

"I hate to break it to you, House," Wilson said with a grin, "but you're kind of unrecognizable right now."

"What? Are you saying I'm not pretty anymore?" House said, feigning shock. "Dr. Wilson, you wound me."

"What I'm saying is, throw an oxygen mask on you and maybe put a patch over your right eye for good measure and even your own mother wouldn't know it's you."

"Leave my mother out of this," House said. "And tell Cuddy I want a lap dance as part of this deal."

Wilson rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he was still smiling.

"I'll cash it in when she least expects it," House said deviously. His ribs twinged and he hissed. Wilson saw him and opened the door automatically, sticking his head out to look for the nurse.

"Here she comes," he said and moved away from the door, stretching. He felt like he could use a nap himself.

House perked up when she came in. "Ah, my angel of mercy," he said. "College boy over here won't lift a finger."

Wilson snorted from the corner of the room and the nurse smiled at him. "Glad to see you're feeling better, Dr. House," she said. "Are we still at a seven?"

"We are at a seven and rapidly rounding the corner to an eight," he said, noticing she hadn't uncapped the syringe yet.

He was starting to get edgy when she smiled again. "Okay," she said, "this'll help," she said and started pushing the drug, looking at her watch.

House relaxed into the mattress, getting ready to savor the high. He checked the dosage and he suddenly felt very fond of Wilson. He would've kissed him if he weren't half-way across the room.

"You got me a hundred?" he said, heart filling with gratitude. "Thanks."

Wilson shrugged. "You looked like you needed it," he said.

The drug started to hit him and he closed his eyes, reveling in it. He resisted the urge to moan in pleasure. God, he'd needed this. He'd been starting to feel the lack of Vicodin wear on his perception of reality, but now he would be oooookay. For a while, anyway. And right now, the future felt very far off.

Wilson's voice cut into his happy haze. "Don't fall asleep yet," he said. "One more neuro exam, remember."

"I remember," House said, eyes still closed.

Wilson saw the unguarded look of ecstasy on House's face as the nurse pushed the drug. He wanted to be clinical and to tell himself that 100 milligrams of Demerol would get anyone but the most hardcore drug addict high. He wanted to tell himself that House was in pain and that he needed this as he came down from the Vicodin. But it bothered him that this was the happiest he'd seen House look in a long time. Since Vogler had left. No, before that. Since he'd gotten the Vette. Maybe even before that. Since he'd gotten the monster truck tickets…and maybe not even then. Wilson might have to go a long way back. He didn't want to think about it…but he realized he had to. He had to because he had to make Greg think about it, which meant he needed to get it all sorted out in his head first. He sighed to himself. It would be a long afternoon.

The nurse finished administering the dose, lowered the bed, and left. House seemed to be asleep. Wilson moved back over to the chair and sat down, slouching.

After a few minutes, Wilson heard House take a deliberate breath and say, "You wanna drive the Vette?"

Wilson sat up and watched him slowly unglue his eyelids. House fixed a heavily drugged gaze on him. He seemed serious. Wilson raised his eyebrows in question.

"I need you to rescue her," House said. "I left the keys with the bartender."

"And you think it's still there?" Wilson said, disbelieving.

"I tipped that bastard pretty damn well," House said. "He'd better at least still have my keys."

"What's the name of the place you went to?" Wilson asked.

"I have no idea," House said. "I think it was near the train station. Ask the cops."

"Okay," Wilson said. "I'll check on it later. They probably don't open for a few more hours."

"I guess not," House said, starting to feel stupid from the drug. "But be careful with her. Treat her like a lady." He felt so much better. It would take nothing for him to fall asleep right now.

Wilson smiled. "I will."

House smiled back and closed his eyes. "Thanks," he said.

Wilson slouched again. He watched House's breathing even out. "Did you really hit that guy?" he asked.

"Who?" House said, waking up a little and looking at Wilson with one eye, "the cop?"

"Yeah," Wilson said.

House laughed a little. "Barely."

"Why'd you do it?"

"I don't know," House said. "I wasn't done fighting yet I guess."

"The cops said you were outside when they go there," Wilson said. "How'd you get outside if you weren't done fighting yet?"

"Bartender and some other guy drug me out there," House said tiredly.

"What about the guy you started the fight with?" Wilson asked. "He just let you go? Was it only one guy?"

"Yeah, just one guy," House said. "Giant ape of a trucker, arms like tree trunks, and this big whore with him. He wouldn't take no for an answer so I stepped in."

"You saved the day?" Wilson said smiling.

House laughed stupidly again. "I'm sure she went home happier than she expected."

"What do you mean?" Wilson asked.

"The big guy—the trucker—robbed me before the cops showed," House said. "About a hundred bucks. But I guess he didn't take anything else or they wouldn't have known…"

"No," Wilson said, "he didn't. Your wallet's here with everything in it but cash."

"Well, I guess that's my good deed of the year," House said, closing his eyes again, the drug thinning his blood. "Good to get it out of the way."

"Yeah," Wilson said.

He let House settle down, starting to wonder where Roberts was. He didn't want to have to wake House up again. House needed sleep, even if it was drug-induced sleep.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked quietly.

House didn't say anything for a moment and Wilson thought he either didn't hear or was asleep. Then House breathed out, "I told you earlier. It hurt too much."

Wilson thought for a moment. "Is that it?" he asked.

House cracked open an eye. "Using drugs to extract a confession?" he said, sounding stronger. "Isn't that illegal."

"Just trying to keep you awake until Roberts shows," Wilson said.

"Sure you are," House said. "How's your dog?"

Wilson shrugged. "He's a dog."

"That's not an answer," House said. Wilson just shrugged again. "This guy'd better hurry up. I'm tired."

"I'll give him a few more minutes before I see what the hold up is," Wilson said.

"Okay," House said. "Find out about that golf cart while you're at it. You said gasoline and fireworks?" Wilson nodded. "That's gotta be a great story."

Wilson smiled at him and he closed his eyes again, just as Roberts walked in to the room.

"Dr. Wilson, Dr. House," he said. Wilson stood and House started. "How are we doing?"

Wilson smiled and House grumbled something.

Wilson excused himself and waited in the hall until Roberts was finished.

He came out after about five minutes had passed.

"Dr. Wilson," he said, "Dr. House is doing fine. Does Dr. Cuddy want him transferred to you or will he be staying here?"

"Transfer him to us," Wilson said. "Thanks for keeping an eye on him." He offered Roberts his hand and they shook.

"Happy to do it," Roberts said with a smile. "It's a shame about what happened. I hope he gets better soon. We need him around."

"Thanks," Wilson said and went back into the room. House was half-asleep again.

"You're ready to go," Wilson said.

"Great," House mumbled. "Can I sleep now or what?"

"You can sleep now," Wilson said and settled back into the chair.

"Finally," House murmured.

Wilson watched his breathing change from the slow, forced in-take of the drug to the light, even in-take of sleep. He looked better. The swelling had gone down except around his nose and he was sating at 98 percent without the oxygen mask. His blood work had been good—no evidence of another bleed, though he was still slightly anemic—and he certainly seemed to be feeling better. He really was doing well physically—better than Wilson had expected. But Wilson knew this was the easy part. Things wouldn't get difficult until House left the hospital. He still wasn't sure how he wanted to handle that, so he tried to get comfortable in the chair and went back to weighing his options, hoping Cuddy would appear soon so he could confer with her.

He fell asleep himself half an hour later, sprawled out in the chair, his mouth hanging open and head hanging over the back of the chair.

* * *

**(Old) A/N:** I was serious about the no-more-updates-till-papers-are-done thing, but this fic will simply not leave me alone.

hopcat12000 - Thanks very much for the in-depth review. I'm glad you're enjoying it. :)

dontuwanakno - Very happy you're enjoying it. Intervention's kicking my ass right now in terms of getting itself written. Stuck on getting the phrasing right at the moment and one chapter of that fic is much longer/more complex than one chapter of this fic. I'm expecting to have it straightened out by next week.

Let me know what you guys think...please. :)


	9. Horse's Hooves and Modern Medicine

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** It's baaa-aaaack. Seeing as it's been a good month since this fic got an update, it was, well, time for an update. Regarding this fic: I'm going to tweak chapters 1 and 2 a bit to reflect the happenings of the last ep but I'm going to keep it pretty much as it is. Consider it an alternate ending. Or perhaps what House does after he chomps the final Vicodin of the season. Whatever rationalization you like. ;) The way they ended the season won't drastically change what I'd planned to do with this fic anyway. :)

A quick note on chronology: Stacy says in The Honeymoon that Mark's been sick for a month. Okay. We can read the Wilson/Stacy date one of two ways: it was just a friendly get-together to catch up on old times or she was scouting House out as a potential doc for Mark who was already sick. I go with the second one. Since I don't think it's possible for the whole mess with Vogler _and_ the House/Cam _date_ date arc to have happened in the space of a month, I'm going with a simple 'the writers forgot that they set this up over a month ago in the show's timeline'. I've thought about the possibility that Sports Medicine could be set during the Vogler era without making direct reference to him but it seems like the 'do you like me' thing came out of the not-date and not vice versa so Sports Medicine had to come before Control and hence the whole Vogler arc. Just wanted to esplain my reasons for contradicting canon (heh, as though I should be worried about a minor canonical technicality in what is an explicitly AU fic…).

jra – I hear you on the 'tyops'. I'm a bad proofreader of my own stuff and Word just doesn't catch the vast majority of my typos for some reason that's probably related in a minor way to Bill Gates' dominion over the earth. I catch typos every single time I re-read anything I've posted here and I fix 'em and then I find more and more and more. Intervention by far is the worst. That fic looks like a flower bed that hasn't been weeded in years.

Thanks also for offering up real criticism on the technical aspects of this fic. I've always got things like continuity, pacing, and believability in mind when I write so it's good to know someone's actually reading for those things. I'll flap my fins and bark like a well-trained, farm-raised-fish-addicted seal for real criticism. Arr arr arr! Cheers.

* * *

**Nine: Horse's Hooves and Modern Medicine**

Cuddy poked her head into House's room at 2 o'clock.

House and Wilson were both asleep. House was totally relaxed on the bed and looked drugged and comfortable, the monitors telling her that was doing fine. Wilson was in a chair, one arm hanging over the armrest, head hanging over the back of the chair, legs splayed out, his mouth open so wide she could see his fillings.

She smiled to herself as she went in and closed the door softly.

"Hey," she said, loudly enough to wake Wilson but not loudly enough to wake House.

Wilson jumped and looked around.

"Hey," he said spotting Cuddy. He wiped a little drool off of his face and sat up. "How'd it go?"

She pulled a chair up next to him as he stretched and got more comfortable. "It went well," she said. "How are you?"

He sighed. "It's been hard, but I'm okay," he said. They were both speaking quietly in deference to the sleeping man on the bed. "He's doing much better," Wilson indicated to House. "Did you get the charges dropped?"

"Almost," she said.

She looked like she wanted to say more but stopped.

"House," she said loudly.

He moved a little, mumbled something, then went back to sleep.

"He's out," Wilson said. "100 of Demerol."

She raised her eyebrows.

"He hit a seven on the pain scale," Wilson explained.

Her eyebrows went higher.

"It was past time for more and he wasn't complaining much, which means it really hurt," Wilson said. "And you know him. His seven is most people's ten."

"That's still a little much intravenously," she said skeptically.

"He was good for once," Wilson said. "He ate lunch, answered my questions honestly for the most part, and agreed to the transfer. He knows it was a reward for his cooperation."

"That's not the best habit to teach him," she said with a weary sigh, "but if he's cooperating…"

"He is," Wilson said. He paused and rubbed his face. "I think he's okay," he said, nodding to himself. "He asked about his car."

"The phallic symbol on wheels?" Cuddy said rolling her eyes.

Wilson shrugged. "It shows that he cares about something outside of himself. That's good," he said.

"It's a car," she deadpanned.

Wilson shrugged slightly. "He also asked about my dog," he added. "That's pretty good for House."

"I didn't know you had a dog," she said, "but you're right. It's a good sign."

"He realizes what he did," Wilson said. "He even apologized. Sincerely."

Cuddy's eyebrows shot up again. "That's very good," she said, "but you know he can be sneaky—and he's so good at hiding things…"

"I know," Wilson said. "He's not off the hook yet by any means, but it's more than I expected, especially so soon."

"You're right," she said trying to smile. "We should be happy."

Wilson nodded and managed a small smile back. He stretched; PPTH _definitely _had better chairs in their ICU.

"So, how did you get the charges 'almost' dropped?" he asked.

She leaned in, glancing at House to make sure he was still out, and her voice dropped. "I had to call Stacy."

Wilson clenched his jaw and looked away.

Cuddy knew he was conflicted over Stacy and since he had more than enough to deal with at the present moment, she didn't pursue that avenue. Not yet.

"She was eager to help," Cuddy said. "She's working on it. One of the officers is holding out."

Wilson rubbed a hand across his face. He didn't like it. "How much did you tell her?" he asked.

"Just the basics," she said. "She didn't need it spelled out for her; she knows him too well. I didn't tell her about the overdose."

"Good," Wilson said. "Let's keep it that way."

Cuddy nodded. "She should have him off soon. She was glad to do it."

Wilson's jaw clenched. He didn't say anything.

Cuddy moved on to a less sensitive topic. "I've authorized the transfer on our end but it's going to be at least another hour before they're ready over here," she said. "Do you want to run home for a little while? I can stay with him."

"No," Wilson said. "But I do need to go to the bathroom. Maybe get some coffee."

"Take your time," Cuddy said.

He nodded and left, yawning into his fist.

Cuddy settled back into the chair and watched House breathe. He was so messed up right now… How could any of them have known what would become of him six years ago when he was suddenly admitted and she took his case? She didn't think often about the choice Stacy made. Ethically, it was absolutely the wrong thing to do. But she'd also been privy to his labs and even if they didn't know how much muscle had been affected, even if she'd stayed with him herself, kept a close eye on his EKG and drawn labs every half hour to check for problems—even then it was likely that he'd have gone into cardiac arrest again. His resting heart rate had been around 140 for three hours straight before he arrested and he was so weak by that time that it was painfully obvious he wouldn't survive without a debridement. Which he stubbornly refused to allow. It wasn't likely that they would've have been able to bring him back if he'd arrested again. He knew that and still…

Of course, there was no way to tell whether he would've actually made it or not, but the fact that the surgeon removed fifty-five percent of his quad was pretty damn conclusive to her. The lack of cases like his involving a significant time delay in the diagnosis made it difficult to ever _really_ know whether he could have held out physically but she had very little doubt in her mind that Stacy's decision had saved his life. That he would've probably died otherwise. But Stacy had known how he'd take it. She'd been right then, all those years ago, scared and upset as she was, when she said he would see her choice as a mistake. A life sentence to pain without the possibility of parole. And that was exactly how he'd seen it. He'd never dealt with it, which was why he'd gotten the stuffing knocked out of him last night.

And God help her, she didn't know what to do.

He looked so innocent asleep before her—even bloodied and beaten he looked innocent. But she knew the truth: he was so much trouble. He was like a napping three year old: he was cute, sure, but he was also a time-bomb waiting to go off as soon as he woke up. All the time. Always getting involved in things the wrong way. And yet…he was worth it. Not all of it and not all of the time, but enough and often enough. What to do with him now, though.

She hoped against hope that Wilson was right in believing that he did want to change and that last night had been an impulsive and poorly considered expression of his admittedly justified anger and sadness and that was it. That it hadn't been real. Not really real. That he wouldn't do it again as soon as he got a chance. That they could still help him alter his course.

But even then…House couldn't be fixed. So many years of living alone and isolating himself…some things about him were never going to change. He'd never get married. Never have kids. It wasn't who he was. Right now he was having a serious mid-life crisis, and who could blame him? She didn't know for sure that she wouldn't do exactly what he'd done if she were in his situation. Or worse, if she would have given up years ago if it had been her. However, empathy only went so far before it became unhelpful, idle speculation. And even if they couldn't fix him they still had to try. One reason he was in his current position was that they had all dropped the ball the last time he needed help. Not this time, though. Not again. They were going to get it right no matter how much House bitched and moaned.

Wilson came back with a cup of coffee and quietly closed the door. He stood at the foot of the bed, watching House's unconscious face for a moment before he spoke softly.

"Have you seen the new labs?" he asked.

She nodded. "They look good. Except for the liver…"

Wilson nodded sadly. "I spoke to him about that," he said. "He doesn't want anything done right now." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck: that nervous, uncertain gesture. "He's scared. He'd never admit it…but he is."

"I'm going to talk to one of our pain management specialists this afternoon," she said.

"He doesn't want to go off the Vicodin," Wilson said.

"Tough," Cuddy answered. "As long as he's with us, he's not going to get any." Wilson looked like he was going to argue and she held a hand up, "I know, I know," she said, "we don't want to alienate him. And we don't have to deal with this until tomorrow. Appadurai agreed to take the case. I sent her his records and I'm going to talk to her again before she sees him. Do you want to be there?"

"I don't think he'd appreciate that," Wilson said, hand hanging on the back of his neck.

"You're entitled," she pointed out.

"I know," he said, "but I'm already on thin ice with him. It'll be easier if I'm not in on this right now. He's so paranoid as it is…"

"You're probably right," she agreed and stood to leave. "You're all right here?"

"Yeah," Wilson nodded. "Go work on withdrawing the charges. I'll stop by once he's transferred."

"Okay," she said with a small smile. "Let me know if you need anything." She paused before leaving and hesitated a moment. "I know you probably don't need to hear this, but you're a good friend to him. Better than he deserves most of the time."

"He deserves better than what he's got," Wilson said dourly.

"Yeah," she said softly, looking down. "He does."

She left and Wilson settled into the chair, sipping his coffee.

He should've seen it coming. He really should have.

He remembered Stacy calling him out of nowhere a few months ago asking if he was free for dinner. She had something she needed to discuss with him and said that she just couldn't talk about over the phone. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

He'd spoken to her occasionally in the past—she'd called to check up on House fairly often right after she left and then less and less as the years went by—but he hadn't seen her in person in a good five years. He knew as well as House did that she was only two hours away in Short Hills but House never mentioned her and Wilson didn't see any reason to unearth a past that wasn't even his. So he'd been suitably surprised when she'd suggested dinner. If only it hadn't been on such a bad night…

He remembered sitting at a table at one of the better Indian restaurants in town, a place he, Julie, House, and Stacy used to frequent, watching the door nervously for her.

He checked his watch: 8:07. House and Cameron would be in their seats or floating around the stadium or in the one of the skyboxes or wherever House's adolescent lust for carnage led them watching Motorcycle Mayhem warm the crowd up right now. And as important as he considered spending time with House, he felt his time was better spent here and now waiting on Stacy to show because there was always a little voice in the back of his mind saying 'maybe' whenever she came up. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe something could change. They'd never be able to get the past back…but maybe something…. He knew House missed her terribly. That he needed her. Wilson always listened carefully when they spoke over the phone about House for any sign that she might be interested in…anything at all. He didn't know much about how she'd been living since the break-up; she always asked about House, followed up with a few brief, polite questions about him and Julie, and that was it. It was spooky, the way she didn't seem to have a life when he talked to her on the phone. But now, well, he was about to find out….

He checked his watch again: 8:10. Why was he so nervous about this?

Traffic. Maybe she was held up in Friday night traffic.

And maybe it was good for House to be out with Cameron tonight instead of him. No, it was _undoubtedly_ good for House to be out with someone new, having fun, whether they considered it a date or not. It was something: something that he needed badly: contact with other human beings. A night out with a woman. To try again. Whatever that meant—a new relationship, casual sex, or just a few beers together—it didn't matter. What mattered was that he was trying. Finally, he was trying. Wilson hoped it went well.

He glanced toward the door and saw Stacy arrive and ask the Maitre 'd about the table.

She looked…good.

Like nothing had changed.

Same hair, same clothes…and he couldn't be sure from here but he thought he saw a flash of diamonds on her left hand.

So.

That was what she'd been up to.

"Hi," she said coming to the table. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic."

"No problem," he replied taking her in as she sat down. "You're looking well."

"So are you." She paused. "How is the current Mrs. Wilson? Is it still Julie?"

"It is," Wilson said. "She's…good."

Stacy saw his face go blank while he thought of that answer. He had never been a good liar.

"It's not working out, is it," she said. It wasn't a question.

"It's…" Wilson searched for the right words. "I'm still trying." He paused. "There's still a chance."

"You always were the optimistic one," she said with a sad smile.

"So, what brings you to town?" he asked. "I know you didn't drive two hours just to see me."

"No, I didn't," she said. She took a deep breath. "About four years ago, I met someone."

He didn't flinch, hearing her say it, just like he hadn't flinched when he'd seen the ring. Just because House couldn't move on didn't mean she couldn't…or that she shouldn't.

"His name is Mark," she said, slowly and a little nervous but self-assured. And something else…what was it?...he couldn't quite—no, there. Happy. She was happy. Wilson hadn't seen that look of deep satisfaction on anyone he knew well in such a long time he'd forgotten what it looked like. "We've been good for each other."

She unconsciously thumbed the ring on her left hand. Wilson saw her do it and she saw him see her but she didn't stop. Somewhere in the mix of emotions he was feeling, he was happy for her. Happy that she was happy. House didn't deserve what had happened—no one did—but she didn't deserve it either. He was glad she'd managed to find someone else even if seeing her now reminded him of how bitter House had become and how differently things had turned out for her.

"We've been married for almost three years," she said turning the ring on her hand. Another deep breath. "And…a few weeks ago, he started getting sick. Out of nowhere. No warning. Abdominal pain. He passed out last week for no discernable reason." She stopped playing with her ring and looked at him seriously. "But it's not just that. He's…he's changed. They've run all the tests they can think of and they can't find anything… Everything comes back negative. They don't know…" she trailed off, desperate. He'd seen that look on her face before.

Wilson nodded slightly to himself. This explained it. He should've known.

"I see," he said.

The waiter came and took their drink orders. She'd have a glass of water. He'd have a vial of arsenic but they were all out, so he'd have a glass of water too.

They sat in silence for a moment after the waiter left.

Stacy ventured the question first.

"How…is he?" she asked softly.

"He's…okay," Wilson said.

She gave him the 'don't bullshit me' look he knew so well. Of course she knew he wasn't okay.

Wilson dropped his head with a wry laugh. "No, he's not okay," he said. "It's been…hard for him. It's not just his leg, but I don't have to tell you that." He fidgeted with his watch and hoped she'd say something. When she didn't, he continued: "He didn't want to try for a long time…but…lately he's been doing better. Well, sort of."

"He's working?" she asked.

"Oh yeah," Wilson said, "he's working. It's all he does. Well, his definition of working."

"You two still…do things together?" she asked tentatively.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "That never really changed." He bit back the urge to say 'We've gone to spectator sports only now' but he knew she didn't need to hear it. Not from him and probably not from House either. Just because she didn't feel the need to publicly flagellate herself for the mistakes that had ended their relationship didn't mean she wasn't sensitive to how much life had changed for House, how hard it had become. Hell, she'd been there for rock bottom. That was all she needed to know.

Wilson continued haltingly, "The way he was when you…left…he hasn't changed much from that." He started playing with his napkin. "He's still doing what he did…" the word 'before' died in his throat, "and he's more of a bastard now, as you'd expect. Getting him to actually _take_ a case is a nightmare—" he laughed a little, nervously, "but once he does…he…well…he cares more. He gets more involved. He works harder, too. Too hard sometimes, but I can't stop him and I don't want to."

The waiter brought their water.

Wilson took a drink of his wishing it was something stronger. He put the glass down and paused again.

"So I guess," he continued, "…he's doing as well as you'd expect. Sometimes better, sometimes worse." His hands unconsciously moved in front of him, mimicking the pattern of his speech. "What he has now—work, essentially—is enough for him. Or so he says. I think he wants more, but he's afraid to try." Wilson looked her straight in the eye. It wasn't something he did very often; she'd always intimidated him just a little. Strong women weren't his type and even as friends they made him nervous. Stacy was slightly different because of their shared past…but what he had to say blew away the intimidation factor. So he looked her straight in the eye without fear.

"He misses you," he said.

Her eyes softened. "I miss him too," she said automatically and thumbed her ring again. "Obviously it hasn't been as hard for me, I wouldn't dream of suggesting that…but it hasn't been easy either." She looked down. "I do…miss him. He's not exactly forgettable."

They shared a nostalgic nod and the conversation flagged.

After a minute, Wilson expelled a breath, ready to get down to the business at hand.

"If you want his help, I think he'd give it to you. Maybe not at first…" He trailed off and looked away for a moment. "But," he said slowly, facing her again, "he would. I have no doubt that he would. I want you to know though…he hasn't gotten any easier to be around. It would be…hard for both of you."

She nodded. "I know, I know. But he's never been cuddly—why should this—" her breath caught on the word, 'this' and all it meant, "have made him any more philanthropic? Or tolerable?" She took a deep breath. "Mark has an appointment on Tuesday to see another specialist. He thinks it's just stress," she blew out a breath with a shaky laugh and a crooked, wry smile, "—where have I heard that before?—" She got serious again, continuing, "And he wanted to cancel the appointment. He's sick of tests…but it's not just stress. I know it isn't. All those years around Greg rubbed off on me. And I realize this isn't going to make it any easier—"

"No, it's not," Wilson said. "But if you really think—"

"I do," she said earnestly.

"Then he'll believe you," Wilson said.

She nodded, relieved.

"But…" Wilson said, "I think you should know—just so you know what you're getting in to—that…he…I…" he sighed, "I don't think he's forgiven you."

She nodded quickly. "I know," she said. "He hasn't. He probably never will." She sighed. "No, forget 'probably'—he never will. I've accepted that."

"Okay," Wilson said and ran his fingers through his hair. "I just wanted to make sure you understood." He blew out a breath. "And who knows, he may have," he added hastily. "He never talks about it."

"That sounds like him."

"One and the same," Wilson said. "He scares the hell out of his team."

"His team?" she asked with a smile. "What, does he drive a sleigh to work?"

Wilson laughed shortly. This was why she and House had been so good together: quick, irreverent, witty. Evenly matched.

"Well, he does treat them like animals most of the time," he said. "Three overachieving fellowship recipients with different specialties. They all have great potential and he'd never admit it, but he's teaching them well. Although most of the time he has them cleaning bed pans." He laughed again, shortly. "But they've been good for him. They challenge him in ways he needs to be challenged."

"Good," she said, "good, that's good. I—I'm glad to hear that."

They sat for a moment, silent, each contemplating the past.

"What about girlfriends?" she asked suddenly.

Wilson looked down.

"Boyfriends?" she added.

"Ha," Wilson laughed. "No. Nobody."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

"Well," Wilson said, "like you said: he's not exactly cuddly." He paused. "One of his team has a crush on him. He—ahh, I—ah, he and I were supposed to go to this monster truck thing tonight," Wilson confessed. "He was really excited about it and then really disappointed when he found out I was going to…. But…he asked her out. The girl with the crush. He asked her out tonight. I don't know what it means, if it means anything at all, but in that respect, he's doing better. She's not what he needs right now…" Wilson trailed off. "I don't think even he knows what he needs. But at least it's something. And even though I know it will be hard on both of you, I think that if you end up coming to him…it might be good for him." He added quickly, "And it might not. He's moodier than a spoiled cat and even more self-righteous than he used to be but it might jog something in him that he's been trying to ignore."

She nodded, understanding. "But I wouldn't be coming just for him—" she said hastily.

He gave her a doubting look. "That's not true."

She looked down. "Maybe it's not."

"Does…Mark know about this? Your coming here tonight?" Wilson asked.

"He does," she said. "He doesn't like it."

"Yeah," Wilson said with a sad smile, "that sounds familiar too."

"But he thinks he's fine anyway," she added dismissively. "He thinks I'm wasting a tank of gas." She paused. "He'll come, though, if I ask him to."

"You seem to have that effect on men," Wilson observed.

"Not all men," she said. "Just two. Maybe just one now."

"That's true," Wilson said smiling. "House has been making up for lost time; he won't listen to _anyone _now."

"Not even you?" she asked.

"He never listened to me," Wilson said.

She shrugged slightly. "Sometimes he did."

Wilson let the matter drop and toyed with his napkin again. "Do you want me to tell him about Mark?" he asked.

She thought about it for a while. "You know him better than I do now," she said finally. "What do you think?"

"I…think it might upset him," Wilson said. "No, I _know_ it would upset him—that's not the issue—but I'm not sure if he needs to be upset right now or not. He's gotten very complacent. He has a boatload of problems he won't face…some he can put off ad infinitum but others he won't be able to ignore forever, though he'll certainly try."

House's increased Vicodin usage sprang immediately to Wilson's mind. Should he mention it? He could…but what good would it do except make her feel bad for something she couldn't control?…and she understood him well enough already…better not then. No reason to add House's pain management troubles to what she already knew about him…but to tell House that the love of his life had moved on—and quickly too—married for nearly three years? Wilson wondered if she'd married on the rebound…the timing was right—that he'd been replaced. It might make him more depressed than he already was but it might also release him from whatever fantasies he had about getting together with her again.

"I'm not sure," he finally said.

"Well," she said, "you don't have to say anything immediately. And who knows, Mark's doctors might figure it out."

"But you'd still want a second opinion," Wilson added.

She nodded slightly. "Probably," she said softly. "He's the best…"

"He is," Wilson agreed. He clasped his hands together. "I guess I'll tell him if I need to tell him."

She nodded and the waiter came to take their order.

The evening went on normally from there. He asked about her practice, she asked about his. They talked about Mark and Julie and old mutual friends and the general stuff of polite conversation with an old friend. When she left, he wasn't sure if he wanted to see her again or not. He couldn't always tell whether House needed to be forced in to something and this was one of those cases where he just wasn't sure.

When she called him again to say that Mark was getting worse and his doctors still didn't know what was wrong, he'd given his tacit approval for her to come. As difficult as it might be on House, something had to change. Quickly. And by that time, Vogler had come and gone and he'd seen House off on his first real date in years with mixed results that left him optimistic about House's future with the fairer sex.

And then she'd suddenly arrived. She hadn't called ahead and told him she was coming so he didn't know and he hadn't said anything yet to House about it—he hadn't worked up the courage to challenge House's precarious equilibrium.

She'd come to his office that day after House had left to give the diagnostics lecture and told him how it had gone. House had reacted badly. No surprise there. Wilson told her he'd talk to him about it but that there was only so much he could do. She'd given him her home, office, and cell numbers and left. He'd gone downstairs just in time to run into House coming out of the auditorium. They'd talked until the students found House and took him back to class. Wilson had paced for a while, gone to the cafeteria to get coffee, come back only to run into Cameron and then paced again. Chase and Foreman had arrived. He supposed Cameron had paged them. He'd been half-listening to House's lecture the whole time and it became clear after a while that he was talking about himself.

Wilson had stopped dead in his tracks when he realized it. House never, _never_ talked about his misdiagnosis and even when he did give someone the real reason he walked with a limp, he _never_ told them that the limp had come with much bigger concerns than the loss of physical mobility. And he never, _never _spoke of that time to strangers. But it fit. It was a diagnostics class. Three cases to see how the class would handle them. They missed the diagnosis too. Cold comfort if anything.

But he was talking about it, Wilson had mulled at the time. That meant he was dealing with it. He had turned a horrible experience that he would never recover from into a lesson and he'd made that sure that lesson sank in. Wilson had been proud of him. And Stacy…obviously House was upset. But her appearance seemed to be making him not only confront the most traumatic event in his life but turn it into something productive and if that was what seeing her again did to him, well, he'd thought then, maybe she should have come back sooner.

Now, though. Now it was obvious that Stacy's reappearance hadn't been the best thing for House—that was putting it mildly.

And yet, Wilson thought as he watched his pulverized, drugged-into-unconsciousness best friend sleep painfully surrounded by monitors, maybe it had been for the best after all. If nothing else, it had brought to light the liver failure. House had finally done something so drastic that not only could they not ignore it, but they had an air-tight case for not ignoring it. He couldn't possibly argue that he didn't need help now. Which didn't mean he wouldn't make that argument loudly and repeatedly, of course. But he knew he couldn't win that argument now. He wasn't right for once. He'd have to accept his fallibility with his mortality. He didn't have a choice.

Wilson sighed and leaned back in the chair. His coffee was cold. He looked at his watch: 2:30.

He was just wondering where the nurses were when one opened the door to do a final check. She turned the heart monitor off and for the first time since he'd arrived, the room was completely silent except for House's heavy breathing.

Wilson sat forward, hands tented around his face, and wondered how the hell he was going to help the man asleep before him. What do you make the superglue out of when you've got to patch up Superman? Horse's hooves—modern medicine, modern psychoanalysis, modern pain management strategies, even the simplicity of just being there—seemed woefully inadequate. He didn't know…but he knew he'd think of something.


	10. Potholes

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews, everyone. Good to know this fic hasn't been forgotten. ;)

This is another of those chapters I can't seem to stop writing in which nothing much actually happens. I thought about making it longer since I've got more written but it came to a natural pause and demanded that I break it there. But in the way of plot, some of it is coming. I surprised myself the other day with a thought for this fic plot-wise that I'd never considered before and wrote some of it down in dialogue form. It'll probably come up in the next few chapters at the rate this fic is currently progressing. It'll be rough. Sorry for the teasing. :ducks:

Individual responses to the reviews below the fic. Thanks again! I really appreciate them and the time you take to write them. :)

* * *

**Ten: Potholes **

"House," Wilson said nudging him, "chauffeur's here."

House grunted.

"Come on," Wilson said, "don't make me get the pen light out again."

House grunted again and opened his eyes. "What?" he barked.

"Your ride's coming down the hall," Wilson said. "Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard you," House muttered. "I just didn't think you'd really wake me up for that."

Wilson looked hard at him, sizing him up. He stepped closer to the bed and held out his hand. "Squeeze," he said.

"I thought we were done with neuro," House said.

"Roberts cleared you," he said, "I didn't. Squeeze."

House rolled his eyes and squeezed Wilson's hand.

"Harder," Wilson said.

House squeezed as hard as he could and Wilson gave him a dirty look.

"That's what you get for asking," House said.

Wilson took out his pen light. "And this is what you get for squeezing too hard," he said leaning in to check House's pupils.

"Track my finger," he said and watched House obey. "Who is J-Lo dating right now?"

House stopped following his finger. "What kind of a question is that?" he said.

"Finger," Wilson repeated. "I'd ask you who the president is, but I don't expect you to know that one. Who's she dating?"

House sighed. "Affleck. That pansy bastard."

"Good," Wilson said and put the pen light away.

"_Why_ did you get me up for this?" House whined.

"Because I enjoy making you miserable," Wilson said dryly. "Because we need to make sure you don't start bleeding again and you'd probably notice it before we'd find it in a vitals check." He paused. "And it's polite to wake you up _before_ we start the transfer." _But you wouldn't know that_, his eyes added.

"Why are you transferring me at all if you think that'll happen?" House asked, sleepy and annoyed.

"House," Wilson said, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, "you're being difficult. You _know why_. It's highly unlikely but I need you awake _just in case_." He rubbed his forehead, very annoyed with House and the headache he was giving him. "Why are you—"

He realized something.

"J-Lo's married to Marc Antony," he said suddenly. He narrowed his eyes at House and his hand flew to his shirt pocket.

"What's your name?" he asked, leaning in and grabbing House's head to hold his eyelid open, flashing the light.

House jerked his head free and pushed Wilson away.

"Heidi fucking Fleiss," he growled, blinking to clear his vision, slightly dizzy from so much movement. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "One more time and I'm going to break that thing. What is with you? PMS isn't normal in a man. You should get that checked. And that was a trick question. You said dating."

"And you didn't catch it," Wilson said, glaring at him and putting the pen light up again. "Stop giving me reasons to doubt your mental status," he said, "and I'll stop bugging you."

Before House could respond, an EMT knocked on the open door.

"Somebody order a transfer?" he asked.

"Yes," Wilson said and the two techs rolled a gurney into the room.

House noticed that he hadn't heard the background beep of the heart monitor in a while and looked around him. Everything was gone except the IV saline and the Foley. Maybe Wilson had been right to be worried. He wasn't his usual perceptive self this afternoon. …but then, he had other things on his mind.

Before he knew it they had the Foley and IV bags transferred to the gurney, the rail down, and the draw sheet ready. He was silently grateful to Wilson for giving him so much Demerol earlier because he knew this was going to hurt.

The tech at his feet looked at the tech behind his head and then at Wilson.

"You ready?" Wilson asked.

House nodded slightly and shut his eyes, taking as deep a breath as he could.

They were quick and gentle but he still had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He felt hands on him, hooking him up to their machines, and heard Wilson ask him if he was all right.

"Yeah," he breathed, feeling the Demerol come to the rescue.

He felt a blanket cover him, his head being lifted, and the elastic band of an oxygen mask rubbing against his ears and pinching the flesh around his nose, but he didn't open his eyes. He felt thoroughly humiliated, having to be awake for all this—having to do this at all—and he wanted to sink through the floor.

"House," Wilson barked.

House's eyes snapped open.

"What?" he barked back through the mask.

"Stay awake," Wilson said.

"Trust me," House said, "no one could sleep through that."

Wilson glared at him and the EMTs announced they were ready to go.

They were rolling down the hall, the flash of fluorescent lights making House dizzy when a voice stopped them.

"Dr. Wilson! Dr. House!"

It was Roberts again. House closed his eyes and hoped he could get away with feigning sleep.

Wilson saw him do it and said through his teeth, "House. Be nice."

House opened his eyes and glared at Wilson.

He heard Roberts arrive and give Wilson some 'aww shucks' pleasantries, which really weirded him out because he could feel Roberts next to him but couldn't see the man since he was behind the head of the gurney. House closed his eyes again so he wouldn't feel compelled to hurt himself trying to put a body with the voice. He really hated being forced to lie there in the middle of a hallway with four normal, healthy men standing around him.

He heard Roberts swish around to the left side of the bed and felt Wilson kick the gurney. He opened his eyes to glare at Wilson again and nodded at whatever Roberts was saying to him, some crap about him being an asset and a credit to the profession and not wanting to lose him so soon and hoping he'd recover quickly. Then Roberts took House's left hand and squeezed it, clapping his right hand against their hands a few times, smiling big and sunny, and then he was gone as quickly as he'd arrived.

House looked up at Wilson as if to say, _What was that all about?_

Wilson just shrugged and they started moving again.

House made a mental note to avoid this ICU in the future.

* * *

By the time they had him rolling out of the hospital and into the bright afternoon sunshine, House was ready for some desperate son of a bitch to pull up out of nowhere and start shooting, preferably at him and preferably without missing. 

The stuffy elevator and its movement, the overhead lights going by as they went through the first floor, the noise of the ER, the oxygen mask pinching his face and making him claustrophobic, and then bursting into the bright, warm day—all of it left him feeling sick, dizzy, and exhausted. He groaned when the techs lifted him into the back of the ambulance and tried not think about the ride across town through pothole-ridden streets.

It was hot in the back of the ambulance and once Wilson and one of the techs got in, it felt entirely too full. The other tech slammed the doors, making his head hurt. He closed his eyes and breathed evenly, trying not to feel so edgy. The ambulance lurched into motion and he bit back a groan.

"House," Wilson said.

"I'm awake," House groaned. He swallowed against the roiling in his stomach.

"This is getting old," he grumbled, left hand moving to hold his stomach.

Wilson was watching him carefully. His breathing and heart rate had quickened and he was clearly in pain. The fact that he was clutching his mid-section worried him.

"House," he said again.

"What!" House yelled. He opened his eyes and saw Wilson and the tech swaying with the motion of the ambulance. His stomach heaved and he gagged, ripping the oxygen mask off.

Wilson grabbed it before it could clatter to the floor of the ambulance. "What—"

"It's getting in my way," House said.

A wave of nausea hit him hard and he tried to roll onto his left side, shifting his shoulders, hands on his stomach, and drawing his left leg up in a poor attempt to curl into a ball. His back twisted because his right leg wouldn't move and his ribs and abdomen sliced pain through him but he didn't care. It was reflex his body hadn't unlearned yet. Pathetic. He tried not to moan.

Wilson's hand was on his shoulder in a flash, pushing him on to his back. He responded by trying to roll onto his right side using the leverage Wilson had given him, his body stiffening with pain from his leg.

"House, stop it!" Wilson yelled, "you'll hurt yourself."

Wilson and the tech pulled him onto his back again and he felt a BP cuff tighten around his arm. He whimpered despite himself, eyes squeezed shut, hands grasping his mid-section.

"What is it?" Wilson asked quickly, "does your abdomen hurt? Did you feel anything tear?"

House shook his head.

"BP's good," the tech said, "110 over 70."

Wilson nodded curtly. "What's wrong?" he asked again.

House didn't say anything, trying to draw his left leg up again, but staying on his back this time. He kept his eyes closed and fought the dizziness and bile creeping up his throat, teeth clenched hard enough to make his head hurt more.

He felt Wilson's hand on his arm and realized he'd been talking.

"House. Concentrate," Wilson said. "Do you feel sick?"

House nodded and felt Wilson squeeze his arm.

"Okay," he said soothingly, "it's okay. We'll take care of it if it happens."

He rubbed House's arm reassuringly and the tech picked up a basin.

"Try to relax," Wilson said. "Breathe."

House's heart was beating wildly and Wilson kicked himself for not seeing this coming.

"Two of Ativan," he said quietly to the tech. The tech passed him the basin and dug around for the drug.

"No," House said feebly, swallowing, "I'll make it."

"Suddenly you're refusing drugs?" Wilson said with a smile, trying to lighten things up.

Just as House's eyes popped open and he shot a glare at Wilson, the ambulance hit a pothole.

"Oh crap," he said and went white.

Wilson and the tech rolled him and he vomited into the basin and on the sheets and Wilson's hand and pants leg. He finished and they rolled him back. He winced in pain, getting his breath back, but he felt better.

He opened his eyes to see Wilson wiping his hand on his pants leg.

"Sorry," he said.

Wilson looked up and shrugged.

"Not like it's the first time," he said, cleaning his fingers off with his scrub top. "And it's better than a bleed." He smiled slightly. "But your aim sucks. Try not to do it again."

"What?" House said. "With all times you've barfed on me or in my car, I think I still have a few free shots before we're even again."

Wilson smiled for real this time.

"You remember I was wearing your clothes this morning?"

House nodded.

"You remember _why_ I had your clothes at my house in the first place, right?"

House rolled his eyes. "If you're going to be that way about it, I'll make you wear your dirty clothes home next time. Julie will _love_ that."

They hit another pothole and House swallowed and closed his eyes again, his heart rate jumping.

Wilson nodded to the tech. "Half," he said softly and the tech nodded back.

"About ten more minutes," he said to House, squeezing his shoulder again. House looked pale, sweaty, and uncomfortable. Wilson felt for him. He'd had an awful day and it wasn't over yet.

A few seconds later, House opened his eyes again and shot Wilson a drugged look.

"Hey, what gives?" he said. "That's illegal."

"You're getting your legals and illegals mixed up again," Wilson said. He leaned over to the tech and added, "He does that."

House glowered at him, but the drug made him look and feel sleepy and the effect was lost. His eyes were half-closed and he was dopey again before he knew it.

Wilson saw him go down. "I'm going to put the mask back on, okay?" he said.

House nodded and lifted his head to let Wilson slip it on.

"I know you're sleepy, but I need you try to stay awake," he added.

House cracked an eyelid open and lifted the mask. "Just so we're clear, you've got to stop with the mixed signals," he murmured. "Either drug me and let me sleep or don't drug me at all."

"Just until we get there," Wilson said. "Get another BP," he said to the tech.

"My blood pressure's fine," House grumbled through the mask.

"You'll keep telling us that until you pass out," Wilson said.

"105 over 70," the tech said. Wilson nodded at him.

"Told you it was fine," House mumbled.

"Can't hear you through the muzzle," Wilson said.

House's mouth quirked but he was too relaxed to say anything. Wilson was in need of some serious retraining if he thought Ativan and Demerol made for a wakeful patient. He felt his hold on the world slipping.

Wilson's voice cut in just before he was out completely.

"House," he said. "How many home runs did Mickey Mantle hit?"

House grunted.

Wilson pulled out his pen light and clicked it on next to House's ear.

"Okay, okay," House said, "372 lefty, 164 righty. His father's name was Mutt, he was a raging alcoholic, and _61_ made you tear up both times we watched it. Put it away now."

Wilson smiled and clicked the light off, returning it to his pocket.

"What happened with the golf cart?" House asked sleepily.

"Golf cart?" Wilson repeated.

"I'm gonna stick a pen light in _your_ eye," House mumbled to himself. "The golf cart. The fireworks. Even if you made it up, I want a story."

"Oh, right, the golf cart," Wilson said. "Not as cool as it sounded. A few frat boys from the college stole some golf carts and went joy riding at a skate park. You remember the scene from the Jackass movie with the golf carts and the big plastic animals?"

House nodded.

"They tried to do that."

"Oh," House said and smiled tiredly at the mental image. "And the fireworks?"

"Right," Wilson said. "Bottle rockets. They tried to time it so that they could jump a row of them right before they went off. What they forgot is that golf carts don't exactly do zero to sixty…ever. Nor are the built to take jumps. One of the gas tanks cracked and the fireworks went off and that was that. Most of them walked away, but a few kids had some nasty burns and bad breaks."

"What were frat boys doing up on a Saturday morning?" House asked sleepily.

"You have to ask that question?" Wilson responded.

House's mouth quirked again. He'd let that go.

"Did they tape it?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," Wilson said.

"Nice," House responded. "Your mission, young padawan, is to find that tape," he tried to say but it came out jumbled and slurred and he gave up.

He was so tired. This was the worst form of torture he could imagine. He made a mental note to punish Cuddy even more than he usually did. He'd stop going to M&M and leave more whoopee cushions in her chair before meetings. And replace the sugar packets in her office with salt packets. And leave fake poop in a place a client or colleague would see it before she did. And get some realistic fake snakes to leave in good places, like the cabinets in the clinic exam rooms and her desk drawers. He had a few older tricks that were due for a comeback. Hiding out in the bushes and water balloon bombing her after work seemed a little juvenile even for him, but the way he felt right now, she might have it coming. As soon as he could think again, he'd remember the others and start planning an offensive strategy. And…he'd…he'd…laxatives maybe?...old trick…but classic…really mean…even for him…but…then…maybe he'd…and…he'd…and…then…and…he'd…

"Hey."

Wilson's voice made him start. Had he fallen asleep?

"We're here," Wilson said. "You okay?"

House slowly opened his eyes to look at Wilson.

"Yeah," he said softly, his awareness of the outside world returning. Wilson looked…tired…worried…

He felt the ambulance pull to a stop and the driver's door open and shut. The tech started moving around.

"Home sweet home," House grumbled. "Where's my paper bag?"

Wilson asked the tech for a piece of gauze and some tape.

"Close your eyes," he said. House obeyed and Wilson taped the gauze over his good eye.

"That's not a paper bag," House said, his bruised eye cracked open.

"No," Wilson said, "it's better than a paper bag. Trust me: you don't look like you."

"You better be right," he said. But he was so tired. He wouldn't—couldn't—argue.

The techs rolled him out of the ambulance and the gurney bounced as it made contact with the ground.

Wilson hopped out and squeezed House's shoulder again.

"Almost there," he said.

House opened his bruised eye again. "You're walking in with me?" he asked. "You look like crap. You'll draw all kinds of attention."

"Thanks," Wilson said dryly. "I'm only going as far as the front door. I need to change again."

"You're welcome," House mumbled and shut his eye as the gurney started to move through the doors and into the whoosh of air conditioning, making his bare arms prickle. He hoped no one would recognize him, but he was so tired…that…did it really…did it…actually…really…matter?...

A final squeeze of his shoulder.

"See you upstairs," he heard Wilson say.

Noise, lights.

They stopped moving. Elevator.

This was nice. Stillness. Relative quiet. Peace.

He was out by the time the elevator arrived.

* * *

Wilson knocked on Cuddy's door before walking in. 

"Hey," he started to say when he saw Stacy seated on Cuddy's couch going over paperwork, "ahhh, hi—"

"James," she said by way of a hello. She gathered up some files. "I'll leave you two alone."

"Thanks," Wilson said, not knowing how to feel.

She hesitated near the door and turned around with an expression so mixed Wilson wouldn't know where to start if he had wanted to understand it.

"Is he—" she started tentatively.

"He's okay," Wilson said. "How's Mark?"

"Better," Stacy said. She turned to Cuddy. "I'll see you in a little while," she said and was out the door.

Cuddy surveyed him. "What happened?" she asked.

Wilson gave her a confused look; it took him a moment to register that she was asking about his clothes.

"Oh, that," he said fingering the scrub top. "He was sick on the way over. Shouldn't have stopped the Vistaril. We'll need to keep a close eye on him for a while. He did a lot of thrashing—he might have torn the stitches. I gave him a milligram of Ativan and he settled down."

Cuddy frowned. "Do you want to move him up to ICU for the rest of the afternoon?" she asked.

"No," Wilson said, rubbing his neck. "I'll stay with him. He needs to rest. A trip to ICU would only agitate him."

"Okay," she said. "It's your call."

Wilson nodded.

"I've ordered a head CT, another round of labs, and chest and wrist x-rays. Do you want to ultrasound the abdomen?" she asked.

"To be on the safe side, yeah," Wilson said.

"I'll give the order," she said picking up the phone.

"I'll do it," Wilson said. "Just get me a machine."

She nodded and put the phone down.

"What do you want to do for pain?" Wilson asked, not sure if he'd like the answer.

"Appadurai wants to start him on Elavil immediately," she said. "That should help some."

Wilson nodded. Getting House to take it was going to be interesting…

"I talked to Soja from Ortho," she continued. "Based on what he said, I'd say IV Demerol sparingly until tomorrow morning, then switch to tablets, no more than 50 mils at a time for the next two or three days. As needed after that for the new injuries, slowly reducing the dosage. He should be over the worst of the Vicodin withdrawal by then. Start him on Neurontin for the leg once the Demerol dose is down enough. We'll have to watch the transition very closely but I don't anticipate any adverse effects. Your thoughts?"

"Sounds good," Wilson said nodding, "but he hates Neurontin. It doesn't work for him."

"Has he given it a chance to work?" Cuddy asked.

"He gave it two weeks when he was settling into a pain management program after the infarction, and one week a few years ago," Wilson answered.

"That's not nearly enough time to see a real effect," Cuddy said. "He should try it again."

"I guess so," Wilson said uncertainly.

He was so glad he had Cuddy on his side, thinking objectively about what to do. House was going to hate this and it was going to make him hurt. If it were up to him, Wilson would keep him on Demerol longer and allow him a higher dose, giving in when House complained. He'd seen House in pain too often; when it got to a certain point, he couldn't take it anymore. But Cuddy was willing to be the bad guy, allowing him to do what he needed to do without feeling guilty, and he appreciated it so much he wanted to kiss her or buy her flowers or do anything he could possibly do to show his gratitude.

He nodded to himself, having decided. "Okay," he said. "Thanks."

She smiled at him warmly then got serious again.

"Appadurai wants to see him as soon as he's settled."

"I don't know if he's ready for that," Wilson said, rubbing the back of his neck again. "The transfer was rough on him. He's tired."

"The sooner the better," Cuddy pointed out.

Wilson nodded. "I know," he said, "but between transfer, the Ativan, and a trip to Radiology, he'll be exhausted. It'll be time for more meds when he gets back and he'll want to sleep. He needs to sleep."

"You're right," Cuddy said with a sigh. "First thing tomorrow. But no later. He's not going to avoid this."

Wilson nodded vehemently. "First thing in the morning," he said. "No putting it off."

"Good," she said nodding, "good."

She took in his boyish face, wan and tired. Scrubs made him look even younger and with the streaks of vomit on him, he was the spitting image of a spooked intern after a long, grueling shift. Except for the knowledge in his eyes. Too much knowledge. "Go change," she said with a soft smile.

"Yeah," Wilson said smiling back and self-consciously looking down at himself. "I will. Let me know how it goes with—" he hesitated, her name on his lips, "—getting the charges dropped." He rubbed his forehead. "If he's doing okay later, I'm going to go by the bar and check on his cane and car, see if I can find something out from the bartender."

"What do you expect to learn?" she asked.

"I don't know," Wilson said. "Maybe nothing. But I'd like to know how it happened. I…need to know."

Cuddy read the unspoken words in his eyes: he didn't need to know specifics; he needed to know _why_. No matter what House had told him earlier, if he'd said anything at all, he needed more than that. She knew Wilson took betrayal hard and that he saw what House did last night as a betrayal. She also knew his marriage wasn't working out: his job and House were all he really had and House was self-destructing before his eyes. She felt for him.

"I'll stop by once he's back from Radiology," she said. "Let me know if you need anything."

He nodded and tried to smile but he just looked tired to her. She watched him go, wishing things could be different and sighed once, softly, to herself before she picked up the phone. Work was the way she dealt with the things she couldn't control. She fixed the smaller things thatwere within her power to fix and hoped that would change the larger things for the better.

* * *

**A/N con't**

Ivory Novelist – Thanks as always. :) "Can House please start loving Wilson like he should?" He does love Wilson…he just doesn't show it. Now in my own little naughty universe he does but that universe doesn't coincide with this fic. ;) This fic's got a ways to go, though, which isn't at all how I'd planned it when I started writing it, so there's plenty of room for change. I think this fic is going to be part three of a triology (Thursday as pt. 1, Intervention as pt. 2, and this fic as pt. 3), so I'm looking to resolve some things with it. How that'll end up even I don't know yet…this effing thing writes itself—like the Wilson/Stacy date in the last chapter: I'd planned for it to be it's own fic, a one-shot post-Three Lives fic centering on Wilson, but the damn thing wormed its way in here. _It _tells _me_ what to do, not the other way around—I'm just along for the ride. ;)

Merrie – kudos for toughing it out! I'm glad this fic hasn't disappointed. Fox couldn't have given me anything juicier to run with. I remember when I read the sides for the first time back in March or April—my head nearly exploded. 'They're gonna do _that_!' I thought, '_no way_!' I think I started writing this fic a few hours later, cause, come on, it just _begs_ to be written about. I think I would've had more fun watching the show if I wasn't spoiled. The date with Cameron would've meant more to me and I would've been more excited over it, especially the way it ended—that last scene in Love Hurts tears my heart every time I watch it—but since I knew what was coming, the impact was softened. But once a spoilerwhore, always a spoilerwhore. I admire you all the more for not caving. And give us some more "Housian Dynamics"! What a cliffhanger! Egad!

dontuwanakno – Cheers. This update is more of the same…sorry!

LEoL – My ego is beginning to rival the Goodyear blimp, not only in puffed-up-ed-ness but in accidental in-flight collisions with birds. Poor geese… Can I bequeath this madness to you? (Madness, genius: tomato, tomahto.) :waves magic wand: Damn. It's on the fritz again. But seriously, thank you. :blush:

cabingirls – For some reason, I like Stacy. Maybe it's because she can take House on the intellectual and asshole levels in a way that no one else quite can. Cuddy and Wilson come close and I think they could take him if they didn't hold back for the sake of not hurting him and while I appreciate that, I like that Stacy's so uncensored around him. Insensitive some would say. Look at the last scene between them in "The Honeymoon." Shit, you just don't _say_ something like that to someone you claim to love. I can, however, see why she'd do it and I want to write both sides of that into this fic. She's just like House except we've been primed to hate her where we've been primed to love him. The human/inhuman balance is similar. But I say all of this and I still need fic to make me like Cameron, so I should prolly shut up. ;)

Coccinell – Welcome to the community! There's some great writing and great writers here. It's got enormous potential as a fandom. I'm glad you're liking this fic and thank you for saying that you'd like to see more of the ducklings. That got me thinking as soon as I read it and a scene came to me that I'd been uncertain about writing because I wasn't sure how well it would fit, but I see now that the ducks should come in somewhere. Thank you for making the comment that helped me get this straight in my head. The fic will be much better for it. :) It'll still be a little while before they come in since it's Saturday in fic time and they won't notice House is missing till Monday, but rest assured, they'll be involved in some way.


	11. Chicken Legs

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

A/N at the end.

* * *

**Eleven: Chicken Legs**

"Dr. House."

He started at the voice and opened his eyes. The patch still covered his right eye and he reached up to pull it off, blinking. A nurse looked back at him.

"Hi," she said smiling. "I'm Andrea."

He grunted something. The EMTs were leaving with their gurney and another nurse was hooking him up to another round of monitors. He was on a new bed in the old gown with no sheet or blanket, which made him feel naked. He'd slept through the transfer to the bed? Weird. But whatever. He pulled the oxygen mask off and was moderately pleased when no one tried to stop him.

The first stuck a thermometer in his ear while the other nurse inflated a blood pressure cuff. He did his best to ignore them.

Where was Wilson?

"One of the EMTs said you were sick on the way over," the first nurse (Andrea?) said, noting his temperature and BP. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," House said, rubbing his good eye. "But okay."

"Good," she said smiling. "Can you give me a pain rating?"

"Seven," he said without thinking.

She frowned sympathetically and wrote the number down. "I'll ask your doctor about getting you something," she said.

He grumbled something about being a doctor himself and not needing all this crap.

She just smiled at him. "Someone will be here to take you to Radiology soon," she said.

"What!" House bellowed as loudly as his ribs would let him.

"Dr. Cuddy wants to—"

"Get Cuddy up here," he growled.

"Dr. House—"

"Now!"

She looked at the other nurse and the other nurse nodded and left. She went back to making notes.

House was livid but on too many downers to really _be _livid. He settled for very, very pissed off and, knowing he couldn't actually do anything until Cuddy showed up, took stock of the room instead, doing his best to ignore the nurse.

It was a private room, as secluded as it got in PPTH, which still meant a glass wall and sliding door. Someone had had the courtesy to draw the blinds in advance. The nurse was checking something or noting something. Angela she'd said? Alicia? She kind of looked like Alicia Silverstone—clueless and entirely too sincere—but with brown hair. Not too bad. He'd call her Alicia.

And he wished she'd leave. He was very annoyed and very tired and _where_ was Wilson to straighten this crap out? And Cuddy, wanting to dislodge him as soon as he'd arrived. He needed pain meds and a dark, quiet room to sleep in, not another voyage through the hospital. Now this child in pink scrubs and a D cup was making entirely too many notes, taking too long, and he was getting very uncomfortable.

Oh, right.

The not being left alone thing.

As if they hadn't already taken his belt and shoelaces.

She was pretending to be busy. Being nice. Not so clueless after all, but dammit, he'd take clueless over savvy right now: savvy made him more self-aware than he wanted to be.

He started tapping his fingers to the steady beat of his heart, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, and was on the verge of breaking the silence when a med student came in and set up to draw blood. Alicia used the diversion to take a sample from the Foley bag. As if he wouldn't see. Goddamn her, her good looks, and her pity.

He closed his eyes and wished he was somewhere else. He was still fuzzy enough from the Ativan that felt himself start to drift as the student sucked blood out of him. Seemed that any time his eyes fell shut, sleep sprang out of nowhere, ambushing him. Bamboozled by his own body. But since when was that new.

The student finished and took the urine sample and then it was just him and Alicia again.

He was about to say something to the tune of 'get the hell out of here' when the door opened and Wilson came in with an ultrasound machine.

There had been a time when pity from a big-breasted woman really did something for him. He didn't stop to dwell on whether it was pathetic or a mark of maturity that he was happier to see Wilson than he'd been all day. Maybe it was the feeling of being gelded.

House noticed he was in a new pair of scrubs. And the machine with him, just great.

"I know we didn't use protection but I swear I'm not pregnant," House said hoarsely.

Wilson smiled lopsidedly. "I want to check for another bleed," he said as if the machine's presence needed to be explained.

Alicia gave him the chart to glance at on her way out. He nodded and gave it back and she left.

"You just saw my BP," House said indicating to the chart. "There's no bleed."

Wilson shrugged and wheeled the machine next to the bed. "You're a department head. You get first class treatment."

"I'll settle for coach. I get to _sleep_ in coach," House grumbled. "What's this about Radiology?"

"You need a shiny new scan and x-rays to go with your shiny new labs," Wilson said.

"That's complete crap," House said.

"You don't have a choice," Wilson responded. "Cuddy's call."

House mumbled a string of obscenities punctuated by Cuddy's name and let it go at that.

"Up or down?" Wilson asked indicating to House's gown with a tube of conduction gel.

"Down," House said and started carefully pulling his right arm through the sleeve. He got tangled in the IV line and Wilson locked it and pulled it out so he could get the gown down until it was only covering his groin area.

Wilson was shocked at how House's upper body looked. What wasn't covered in bandages was covered in bruises. He hesitated to touch him at all and wished he didn't feel compelled to run what was probably an unnecessary test. But he had to. At this point, he thought even House's blood pressure might be lying.

"That guy really did a number on you," Wilson said in a poor attempt to sound nonplussed as he squeezed gel on to House's abdomen.

"He fought like a girl," House said and hissed when the wand made contact.

Wilson's mouth quirked at House's hiss. "At least he walked away," he said and studied the monitor. House watched too.

"You know, it's pointless to look for something when you can't even look in the right place," House said.

"If I tell you it makes me _feel_ better to do this, will you—well, okay, you won't shut up no matter what I say; forget I said anything," Wilson said.

House took his eye off the monitor just long enough to shoot Wilson an annoyed glare.

"Looks clean…" House said after Wilson had swished as close as he could to the incision and done a thorough sweep of the rest of House's aching mid-section.

"Yeah," Wilson said, sounding slightly defeated. Now he'd have to put up with House's crap. "You're fine." He wiped the gel off of the wand and put it back.

"Thanks," House sneered. "I knew that before the Crisco swab." He made a feeble attempt to wipe the gel off, but he was tired and gave up quickly.

Wilson saw him without appearing to be watching.

"I'll get the nurse to get you a new gown," he said as he turned the machine off.

"Highlight of my day," House said with a repressed shiver. The room was cold and he was almost totally naked.

"They'll take you to Radiology soon," Wilson said. "Another perk of being at the top of the food chain—you get cuts. How's the pain?"

House looked down at his body and back up to Wilson. "How do you think it is?"

"Once you're settled," Wilson said by way of explanation.

"'Once I'm settled'," House parroted back with a sneer. "I'm never going to be settled. Not with you and Cuddy the Terrible on my case all the time."

Wilson gently wiped most of the gel off of House's abdomen with a cloth and left it on his belly.

"Need the tests," he said tightly in the 'I'm sorry but I have to and I wish you'd understand' tone reserved for solely House and his wife and/or committed girlfriend.

"Like you needed this one?" House griped. "You better not bill me for this complete waste of time."

"The attracting more flies with honey than vinegar thing works with people too," Wilson said, annoyance and condescension edging his voice. "It's a metaphor."

"Is that what you call my foot up your ass?" House muttered to himself.

Wilson was sick of it. He stood to his full height, squared his shoulders, crossed his arms over his chest, and said with a bitter, sardonic, half-angry smile, "Try me."

House's forehead furrowed. Did he just say…?

"You want to fight?" Wilson said without moving. "Go ahead. Try me."

House looked away angrily, balling his left fist, knowing he could do nothing.

Wilson glared at him only as long as he had to before stooping to finish with the machine. He tossed his gloves in the medical waste bin when he was done.

"Best of five," he heard House say tightly to his back.

He turned around to see House studying him with cold eyes and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Mortal Kombat," House continued. "Best of five." He lifted his right arm, "When this works again."

"Which one?" Wilson asked skeptically.

"The original," House replied.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "PS2?"

"No," House said rolling his eyes, "I'm going to drag out the Sega. Of course PS2."

Wilson considered it, eyes never leaving House's.

"You don't get to be Sub-Zero," he said after a moment.

"You don't get to be Scorpion," House replied.

"Nobody gets to be Sub-Zero or Scorpion," Wilson said.

"Fair enough," House said.

"Traditional?" Wilson asked.

"Mexican rules," House replied.

Wilson shook his head. "German rules or traditional," he bargained. "No Mexican rules."

"Dutch rules," House said, eyebrows raised and a smug smile on his face.

"I'm not playing Dutch rules with you again," Wilson protested. "Never."

House's smile became more self-satisfied.

"Irish rules?" Wilson suggested, knowing it was hopeless.

House's expression didn't change.

"C'mon, you like Guinness," Wilson whined. "And Heineken. And saying 'Ich bin ein Berliner'."

House shrugged his left shoulder. "And you like Corona."

Wilson sighed, knowing House had him. "Proposal to amend Mexican Rule number four," he said.

"Just because you can't roll the 'r' in 'Arriba' after your third beer…" House said with a smile. "Chair will not hear proposal. Full-on Mexican rules, Dutch rules, or Slavic rules only."

"You just made that up," Wilson protested. "I don't even remember Slavic rules."

"You were really drunk that time," House said. "And you lost that round. Badly. It was worse than Thai rules night. But I can refresh your memory…"

"Fine," Wilson conceded with another sigh, "Mexican rules."

House smiled broadly and held out his left hand. "Shake."

Wilson stepped over to the bed and shook his hand. "Leftsie's binding," he said.

"Mexican rules," House said.

"Mexican rules," Wilson agreed.

They shook one last time and let go.

House breathed a sigh of relief as soon as Wilson stepped away. "_Anything's _better than Dutch rules."

Wilson narrowed his eyes again. "You were bluffing."

"See, _this_ is why you're not good at cards," House said.

"And _this_ is why you're not good with patients," Wilson countered. "You're not selling a car, you're providing a service. It's not a negotiation."

"You want me to work on _my_ bedside manner?" House said. "Didn't you just challenge your bed-ridden cripple patient to a fist fight not five minutes ago?"

"Momentary lapse of judgment," Wilson said with a shrug.

"Yes, we're all entitled to those, aren't we," House said dourly.

"Out of my hands," Wilson said.

"No, it's not," House complained.

A nurse slid the door open before Wilson could reply.

"Radiology is ready for you, Dr. House," she said and held up the gown and fresh bedding she had in her hands, "but first let's get you changed."

Wilson shot House a brief sympathetic look. He could tell this nurse was ten times too chipper for House right now.

"See you in a little while," Wilson said, leaving with the machine.

House grumbled something unintelligible as he watched Wilson go and groaned to himself.

Alicia started carefully cleaning him up and he looked away. He knew what they were taught—to be clinical, not to personalize—but he had a feeling that he'd run into her all the time now and he'd always remember that she'd changed his clothes as if he were a baby. Of course it wasn't like that to her, he knew that, but he felt embarrassed and degraded nonetheless. She helped him get the new gown on and covered him with the sheet and blanket.

_What for?_ he thought bitterly, even if he did feel better now, warmer and less exposed. Still there was the heart monitor beeping incessantly and still the annoying urinary catheter, only now there was waiting too. Waiting to wait some more to be scanned to wait some more to be scanned again to wait some more to get back to his room to wait some more to see the shrink to wait some more before he got a new dose of meds and even then probably not enough meds to make him fall asleep and if that was the case, he'd be waiting again for sleep.

But Wilson would probably be with him. He didn't know if that was a good thing or not. On the one hand, Wilson didn't make him uncomfortable like sitters and nurses did. On the other, Wilson knew all of his tricks _and_ he had the annoying habit of wanting to talk about serious things from time to time. And he knew Wilson wasn't going to let last night go for a long time. So maybe he could send Wilson off after his car and fake something good to get more meds if they didn't give him enough the first time. Just so he could sleep. Anything to sleep.

Once the Ativan and Demerol started wearing off, he was going to be edgy as hell. Withdrawal again. Easier this time because he knew even Cuddy wouldn't take him off all narcotic analgesics until tomorrow at the earliest. And he'd thrown up earlier…good argument for keeping it IV and not trying to switch to anything oral tonight. He could always fake a stomach ache anyway…though once the Ativan wore off he wouldn't be faking. Goddamn them. They couldn't possibly make this harder. At least at the detox clinic they put him under until most of the messy and painful stuff was over. This odyssey through the halls was going to kick the painful part up. Maybe the messy too. Goddamn hospitals. Goddamn Stacy. Goddamn it.

A pair of orderlies arrived with a gurney and transferred him. He blearily thought that he might be recognized as they wandered the halls to Radiology, but his eye was still bruised and semi-swollen and with the tape on his nose and butterfly bandages and stitches on the rest of his face, maybe he'd go unnoticed. He closed his eyes as they started down the hall, thinking that even if someone did notice him, he wouldn't have to see them take notice. That made him feel better. Just a little, but better nonetheless.

Radiology. He didn't get down there too often and didn't recognize any of the techs when they arrived. He braced himself for another transfer to the table. Angry ribs, angry torso, angry arm, very angry head, and very, very angry leg. Wonderful.

By the time he was parked outside CT, he was more than ready for more pain meds and _anything_ to take away the jitters of early withdrawal. It was going to be bad this time. He shouldn't be feeling it yet, not an hour after a dose of Ativan. Goddamn Cuddy and her tests.

A chicken-legged kid was waiting in his room when he finally got back. He was too tired to even grunt his annoyance at the final transfer back to the bed.

Alicia fussed over him and took his vitals again—Jesus, could Wilson _be_ any more overcautious?—and finally left him alone with Chicken Legs, who introduced himself and started stuttering something about having hopes and dreams of becoming a doctor one day.

House stared at him stupidly. He couldn't be more than sixteen. A volunteer. They left him with a goddamn volunteer? He was so tempted to say something vitriolic and ambition-crushing as Chicken Legs spilled out his life story, but he was just too tired to care.

After a while, Chicken Legs noticed his lack of response, said something self-effacing about rambling being his biggest vice, and nervously backed into his corner.

House closed his eyes against the light in the room, half-aching, half-crawling out of his skin, and thoroughly miserable. Chicken Legs was breathing noisily across the room. He wanted to curl on to his side: his back was sore from so much immobility, adding to everything else. Foley still in place. Wilson hadn't shown with his meds yet. Goddamn it. Goddamn it.

"Chicken Legs," he said hoarsely, "turn on the tv."

"I'm sorry, sir?" Chicken Legs said, voice cracking. "My name is Hugh."

"Whatever," House said. "Turn on the damn tv. Find something good."

"Uhh, you have the remote, sir," Chicken Legs stuttered.

"Quit calling me 'sir'," House snapped. He looked down at the bed. "I don't see the remote."

"By the bed, sir—sorry," Chicken Legs said.

"Do I look like I can reach it?" House growled. "Turn on the goddamn tv and find something good to watch."

Chicken Legs nervously scampered to the bedside table and snatched the remote, afraid that House would bite him.

"If you can't deal with angry patients," House said, "you can't be a doctor."

"But you're a doctor, right?" Chicken Legs said, turning the remote over in his hands. "You're Dr. House."

"I'm nobody," House grumbled. "Turn. On. The. Television."

"Yessir," Chicken Legs mumbled, reproved, and obeyed. "What do you want to watch?"

"I don't _care_," House groaned. Useless overeager volunteers. "What do you kids like to watch?"

"I like the Discovery Channel," Chicken Legs said like a puppy looking for approval.

"You do not like the Discovery Channel," House said. "Put it on MTV or something. This thing doesn't get porn, does it?"

"Umm, I don't know," Chicken Legs stammered. "I can check…"

_Idiot!_ House thought. This kid was a mirror image of himself at sixteen and it pissed the hell out of him.

"If you're going to check on anything," he said through his teeth, "check on the whereabouts of my pain medication. In the mean time, put on MTV."

Chicken Legs looked down. "Yessir, sorry," he said, "sorry, I mean, for the 'sir'. Sorry. Sorry." He fumbled with the remote and finally landed on the right channel.

House tried to settle down and relax. Breathe. Concentrate on the tv show. _I Want a Famous Face._ A real mark of the advancement of civilization.

He was nearly relaxed, feeling less edgy than he had in half an hour, when Chicken Legs piped up from the corner.

"So what's it like being a doctor?"

House groaned to himself and wondered for the umpteenth time where Wilson was.

* * *

"Films look good," Wilson said coming in to the room.

He looked up and saw House pale and limp on the bed, head leaning lax to the left, eyes closed, and vomit on the right side of the bed, his chin, and his right shoulder and arm.

"House!" he said alarmed, "House!"

House coughed and stirred. "What? What?" he said. "Stop yelling."

"What happened?" Wilson said frantically, films forgotten on the table next to the bed as he fought the urge to check anything he could reach. "Where's the sitter?" he managed to ask.

"I puked and then he puked and then he ran away," House said. "It was kind of gross."

"What the hell!" Wilson said, angry at finding House alone when he'd left explicit orders… "Do the nurses know?"

"I guess," House said. "It just happened. I'm surprised you didn't run into him." He blanched. "Oh shit," he said, "basin, basin, now!"

Wilson wasn't fast enough and House vomited on himself again. Nothing was left to come up by the time Wilson put a basin under his chin.

House glanced down at himself. He'd gotten his left side this time. "Now I match," he said. "Gotta love symmetry."

"I'm gonna get you an antiemetic and the NG tube is going back in," Wilson said.

"No," House groaned. "My gut's fine. It's the Vicodin."

"You're not on any Vicodin," Wilson said dumbly.

"I know," House said, "that's the problem."

"You're loaded up with Demerol and Ativan."

"They're not helping."

"You're not going back on Vicodin."

"Whatever," House said.

"You're not," Wilson said.

"Will you get me something before I puke on myself again?" House snapped.

Wilson went to the door. "This conversation isn't over," he said.

He was only gone for a few seconds before he returned with Alicia and one of the other nurses, Wilson carrying a small bag that House immediately recognized as a Vistaril drip and the nurses a new gown, new bedding, and a small tub of water between them. He groaned to himself.

"It'll dry," he said pathetically to the nurses, near the point of begging. He was tired and hurting and not in the mood to be manhandled again.

Wilson connected the drip to House's arm and let it run. "This'll help," he said to House.

He turned to the nurse's, who'd set their supplies down and were waiting for Wilson's cue. "Could you give us a few minutes?" he said.

They nodded and left.

House watched Wilson curiously, wondering what he was up to. Once the door was closed, Wilson simply sat down in the chair next to the bed and turned his attention to the tv.

"College World Series is on," he said and changed the channel to ESPN2.

"Umm, thanks?" House said uncertainly.

Wilson glanced at him. "Give it a few minutes," he said nodding toward the new drip. "I should've started it earlier, but on top of the Ativan… Anyway, it'll help."

"If you _really_ wanted to help," House said, "you'd get me a Vicodin."

Wilson ignored him. He stood and went to the table where he'd dropped House's x-rays in his haste.

"As I was saying earlier, your films look good," he said as he turned on the room's display board and hung the x-rays of House's wrist. "Colles fracture was set correctly and is holding. Splint should be okay for tonight; we'll put a cast on tomorrow. Should be the usual six weeks if you're good. Hurt much?"

"About like it should," House said glancing at his wrist. "Not too bad."

"Good," Wilson replied. He took down the wrist x-rays and put up House's chest x-rays. "You weren't quite as lucky with the ribs," he said. "Not the nicest-looking breaks, though you did manage to avoid complications. Take a deep breath and hold it."

House glared at him and did his best. He sputtered air out and tried again. Once he'd tried three times, Wilson said, "Okay, enough. I'll bring you a spirometer later."

House nodded, relieved.

Wilson put the chest films away and stuck the scan on the board. "Head CT looks good too. No evidence of increased intracranial pressure, hemorrhage or subdural hematoma. You should be fine in a few days. Don't piss the cops off next time."

"That guy assaulted me," House said sleepily, feeling the medicine kick in. "I should sue."

"Do you ever listen to yourself?" Wilson said as he turned the board's light off and put the scan away.

House grunted softly and his eyes fluttered.

"Labs look good too," Wilson said as he sat down next to House again. He glanced at the television. "Florida's going to win again," he commented.

"Fullerton'll cream 'em in Omaha," House mumbled. "Fullerton always wins."

"Probably," Wilson agreed. "Feeling better?"

House looked wearily at him. "You mean am I going to hurl on you again?" he said.

Wilson's mouth quirked.

"I wasn't actually serious about letting this dry," House said, looking down at himself with disgust. He sighed heavily. "This really, _really_ sucks," he said.

Wilson stood and offered a half-smile. "I'll get them back in here to clean you up," he said.

"Wonderful," House murmured.

"How's the pain?" Wilson asked.

House thought about it for a moment. "About an eight," he said tiredly.

Wilson nodded. "I'll be back with something in a few minutes," he said going to the door.

He beckoned to the nurses and glanced at House quickly before leaving.

He kicked himself for not being more attentive as he went down the hall. House shouldn't have to suffer. He made a note on House's chart and drew fifty milligrams of Demerol with a Phenergan chaser. Sleep certainly wouldn't hurt him right now.

Wilson loitered outside House's room for a while, allowing the nurses time to get him settled. He needed to talk to Cuddy again; it seemed to early to him for House to be feeling withdrawal…but then he had been taking enormous amounts of Vicodin all week. And drinking on top of that. Probably not sleeping either and he never ate right. The CT was clean so it probably wasn't related to the head injury…could be pain—it was about half past five and since he'd had so much earlier, Wilson had hoped to stretch the dose until six, but he understood being transferred from gurney to table and back was rough on anyone with the kind of injuries House had…so…damn, it _was_ the Vicodin. He definitely needed to talk to Cuddy again.

The door opened and one of the nurses came out with the soiled linen. Wilson peaked in and saw the other nurse covering House up and asking him something. He could tell House was annoyed, but he looked sleepy and pained more than anything else.

Wilson stepped inside and flashed the nurse his award-winning grin. "Thanks Andrea," he said.

She smiled back at him and left, closing the door behind her.

Wilson brandished the syringe and tried not to notice the hunger in House's eyes when he saw it.

"Name's Andrea?" House asked sleepily as Wilson tore open an alcohol pad.

"Yep," he said.

"Huh. I thought it was something else," House said. "Kind of looks like Alicia Silverstone, right?"

"I never really noticed," Wilson mumbled as he inserted the needle in the injection port and checked this watch as he slowly administered the drug.

"You do her?" House asked, sounding punch-drunk to Wilson.

"Nope," Wilson said tightly and felt a blush creeping up his neck.

"You dog," House said, a stupid grin spreading out on his face.

Wilson looked up at him and stopped pushing the plunger. "You want this or not?" he challenged.

House held up his hand in defense. "I didn't say anything."

Wilson glared at him, checked his watch, and started pushing the drug again.

"Y'know," House said philosophically, "I thought I was finally at a point in my life where I could stomach the Naughty Nurses series again, but this—this, just now—has set me back at least two years. Maybe more."

Wilson chuckled. "That's too bad," he said, eyes on his watch, "Naughty Nurses XIX is really worth the $21.95."

House smiled sleepily, eyes starting to close. "You seen the new Girls Gone Wild?" he asked.

"The one with the games?" Wilson asked. House nodded slightly. "No. Any good?"

"Worth the $9.95 but not as good as the original or the one with Snoop Dog," House said. "It's got a drunk midget referee, though. I should write an angry letter about the exploitation of little people."

Wilson snorted a laugh. "I'll have to borrow it," he said.

"You can borrow it when I get the five or six tapes you have already back," House mumbled. "Especially Malibu Nights II and III. Some of Jenna Jameson's best work."

"I thought you'd made the switch to Internet porn," Wilson said.

"You don't really get the quality of adult film star that I'm used to on the Internet," House said. "I'm all about the acting."

"Talent pool's broader online," Wilson said. "More variety. More of everything."

"It's about the quality for me," House said faintly, "not the quantity."

"Dude, I've seen your collection. It's all about the quantity."

"I'm just sayin' I miss the golden age," House said. "The articles in Hustler aren't worth reading anymore. Hard hitting journalism packed in between hot chicks has gone the way of the Soviet Union and Pong."

"Playboy's still got some good stuff," Wilson said.

"Too tame," House said. "Their spreads are so mainstream now."

"As if Playboy was ever edgy," Wilson scoffed.

"There was a time…" House said.

Wilson capped the empty syringe and disposed of it and his gloves.

He sat down next to House and watched him breathe evenly.

"It's after five, right?" House murmured.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "It's about 5:20. Why?"

"Bar's probably open."

"I'm not bringing you a drink," Wilson said.

"My car," House said with as much annoyance as he could muster.

"Right," Wilson said. "I'll go down there in a little while." He looked up at the television. "Fullerton just lost," he said. "Force game three tomorrow. Arizona State's looking good. Did you have money on them?"

"Just the regular pool buy-in," House mumbled.

"I picked Nebraska," Wilson said.

House laughed lightly.

"C'mon, they're the number three seed," Wilson said. "Home turf if they make the series, too, which I see they already have, _unlike_ Cal-State who just got trounced."

"Four runs is _not_ a trouncing," House said. "You're the guy who bet on Rice last year. Do you draw names out of a hat or something?"

"Rice looked good," Wilson protested. "They played a good series, too."

House laughed again. "And then you picked Texas."

"Shut up or I'll leave your car to rot," Wilson said.

"You will not," House said, "you're dying to drive it."

Wilson muttered an obscenity and turned his attention back to the tv. "Texas and Mississippi got rained out," he said. "South Carolina's playing later. Oregon State. Should be a good game."

House didn't say anything.

Wilson looked over. Asleep.

He turned the television volume down and divided his attention between the game and House. He hesitated to leave him, though he had every intention of investigating the bar.

He let two innings pass before he finally stood up, got a new sitter installed, and left to talk to Cuddy.

* * *

**A/N:** This thing's moving a bit slower than I'd planned…

Ivory Novelist – Thanks. I get what you're saying. :)

LEoL – Cheers on 'Inside Out'. I read the wedding scene right after it was posted. Nicely done. I don't know how you keep all of those universes straight. Very impressive. :) Somehow the House/Harry Potter crossing makes me feel good. I owe you…let's see, 32 chapters, that's about 35 reviews. :sheepish:

Thanks, re: the writing business. Heh. LA would swallow me whole. And screen writing is the antithesis of fic—no control over what you write, network execs breathing down your neck about ratings, having to worry about what's kosher to the companies who've bought ad time, the censor, producers, editors tearing your stuff to pieces, etc. Definitely not my scene. But I appreciate the sentiment. :)

Megan – Thanks. Re: the meds. I've researched to double check most things, but I've actually taken the majority of the drugs mentioned in this fic through a totally unrelated set of circumstances, so some of the writing here is based on first-hand experience, though I do keep in mind that drugs affect different people in different ways and rely on that principle more than experience. I was really surprised when I started doing research for Intervention many, many months ago and ran across a bunch of drugs I'd been given in the past. Lots of confused faces and 'WTF!'-ing from me. Kind of puts a different spin on the 'write what you know' axiom. I'm glad it adds to the realism. :)

Merrie – Four fics at once! Geez. You're totally forgiven. ;) Glad you're really getting into writing, though. It's fun, no:) House vs. Shrink is coming – chapter after next. House vs. Cuddy is coming up more immediately. :g:

A.H. Smith – Thanks. It's fun picking our boy's head apart. :)

Coccinella – Thanks again. My medical consultant deserves much of the credit for keeping me in line when it comes to the medical realism and even then, some of the things I have going on are pushing the boundaries of logic. Like mixing Demerol and Vistaril in a patient with a head injury. But I guess there's always the suspension of disbelief, eh? ;)

Thanks for reviewing everyone. Makes the writing that much more rewarding.


	12. Two Scenes

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **You guys wanted ducks? Here are some ducks! Okay, only one duck, but a duck is a duck! It's Saturday in fic time – Chase and Cameron are out being normal people. ;) They'll be around later, though.

The AIP I researched as best as I could. It's sorta uncommon in men, even though it is hereditary, and that might mean something that the show's gonna run with or, I dunno, something else…not a mind reader. Not a doctor either. Not even a medical student. ;)

More at the end.

* * *

**Twelve: Two Scenes**

Foreman glanced over his labs at the nurse's station, checked his chart to see what kind of morning he'd had and nodded to himself. Patient was awake and alert and…he peaked through the glass…reading a magazine. Good.

Foreman slid the door open and stepped in to the room.

"Mr. Warner," he said. "I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

Mark smiled at him and nodded, putting the magazine aside. "Yes," he said, folding his hands over the blanket, "the treatment seems to have worked. When can I get out of here?"

"That's what I came to talk to you about," Foreman said. He glanced around the room. Aside from the growing number of cards, flowers, and stuffed toys, he didn't see the usual empty coffee cups or spousal effects that normally accompanied a prolonged hospital stay. "Is your wife around?" he asked politely. "She should hear this too."

Mark waved a dismissive hand. "She's working," he said. "She works non-stop. Now that I'm better, she's back at it." He scratched his head. "Your, ahh, Dr. Cuddy—did I get that right?—asked her to do some consulting work since she used to work here." He shrugged. "I haven't seen her all morning. But you can tell me whatever you've got to say."

Foreman hid his surprise at the revelation that Stacy had worked at PPTH before. He, Chase, and Cameron had kicked around bizarre theories about House and Stacy all week. Except for Cameron who seemed oddly calm about the whole thing, they'd been shocked to learn that House had not only lived with someone for a long time—_five years_, Foreman had thought, _who could put up with him for five minutes let alone five _years!—but that he'd loved and been loved. This made sense, though. Perfect sense. And it explained House's love of hospital dramas.

"Okay," Foreman said. "Tell her to page me if she has any questions." He didn't really need her to be here; he simply found that patients were usually calmer with their loved ones around when they received news—especially bad news. But he didn't have bad news so she didn't have to be here. He had a feeling, though, that he was going to be paged within the hour.

Mark nodded.

"Well…" Foreman started, "I don't know how much Dr. House told you about AIP…"

Mark stiffened at House's name. "I haven't seen him since he stuck me with that needle," he said. "Stacy says that he won't be back since I'm not interesting to him anymore."

Foreman nodded with a smile. "That's how he treats everyone," he said.

Mark smiled back. "He leaves you three to do most of the work?" he said.

Foreman nodded, smiling, again. "That's him." He switched to doctor mode. "AIP is a tricky condition," he said. "You'll have to watch your diet very closely in order to prevent another attack. We still don't know exactly what triggers attacks for you. Try to think back over the past month—what you were doing, what you'd eaten, how much stress you were dealing with, whether you had consumed any alcohol—when you experienced abdominal pain. That's the easiest way to find your trigger."

Mark nodded quickly. "I know, I know," he said. "Dr. Cameron gave me some pamphlets on AIP. Lots of carbs, no beer—I got all that. When can I go home?"

"I'll set up an appointment with a nutritionist to devise a diet and meal plan for you. Because of the severity of your attacks and the short time between them, you'll have to follow it pretty strictly, at least at first." Foreman took a deep breath; his patient wasn't going to like this part. This was the part he liked to have their loved ones around for. "As to when you can go home, we're concerned about the length of time your condition went untreated. We want to test for nerve and muscle damage, especially in light of your paralysis." His face softened at Mark's stricken look. "I'm sorry, I know this is difficult to hear. I was hoping your wife would be here with you for this…"

"No, it's okay," Mark said faintly, a far-away look in his eyes. "Please continue. How long do I have to stay here?"

"It's hard to say," Foreman said. "You're responding well to the current treatment and that's very good, but we need to keep a close eye on you for a while. Once we're done with the treatment, we want to see how you settle in to a regular diet."

"This is because it was bad, right?" Mark asked.

"Yes," Foreman said. "AIP is, as I said, a very tricky disease and unfortunately, it was in the advanced stages before we caught it. We want to keep you here where we can monitor your body's reaction not only to the treatment, as we're doing now, but also to a return to normal diet."

"Can't I do that on an outpatient basis?" Mark asked, starting to sound worried.

"We'd prefer it if you remained here," Foreman said. "There are no guarantees with AIP. All we can do is control it as best we can and it's easier for us to do that with you here—"

"But I know the rules," Mark interrupted pleadingly, tears forming in his eyes, "I'll follow the diet. I just—Jesus—I don't want to—have to—I don't want to stay here."

Foreman stepped to the bed, squatted, and scooped up Mark's hand. "It's okay," he said soothingly, passing him a tissue. "Don't worry about it. I know it's not the best news, but we caught it in time to treat it. There's a very good chance you'll be fine. Most people with AIP, once they're treated and adjust their diet and lifestyle, never have an attack again."

Mark nodded and wiped his eyes. Foreman let his hand go and stepped back to a professional distance.

"But you said," Mark hiccupped, "about nerve damage—how will you know? I mean, my feet—they're still kind of numb, especially my toes. Is that," his breath hitched, "p-permanent?"

"It's too early to tell," Foreman said carefully. "We should know in a few days. Are you having pain, weakness, or numbness anywhere else?"

"Umm, my, umm, abdomen still kind of hurts," Mark said. "And my hand—" he flexed his left hand, "I can't—I don't know if—I mean, I'm not sure if it's like it was."

"Okay," Foreman said and held his right hand out, "let's see. Squeeze my hand." Mark squeezed. "Harder."

"That's as hard as I can," Mark said.

"Okay," Foreman said. "It is still a little weak, but it's also still early. Give it time."

"Okay," Mark said. "Thanks. I feel better." He half-smiled. "So I'm stuck here for a while?"

Foreman smiled back. "Shouldn't be too long," he said.

Mark nodded. "Thanks."

"Do you have any other questions?" Foreman asked.

Mark shook his head. "Not right now," he said.

"Okay," Foreman said. "Just tell the nurse to page me if you do."

Mark nodded.

"If I'm not here, Dr. Cameron or Dr. Chase can answer any further questions you or your wife may have."

"But not House," Mark said with a dubious grin.

Foreman laughed shortly. "No," he said smiling, "not House."

"Thank God," Mark said with relief.

Foreman just smiled again.

He saw Mark's attention go to the door and glanced over to see an attractive, middling, semi-professional suburban couple waving.

"I see you have some visitors," Foreman said. "I'll leave you to them."

"Thanks, Dr. Foreman," Mark said again, an eager look on his face as he watched the door.

Foreman opened the door and stepped out.

"You can see him now," he said with a smile.

"Teresa! John! Come in!" he heard Mark say happily as he started down the hall.

Such a nice guy, he thought to himself. So normal. So unlike House. He wondered if House had ever been that way…no, no, he just couldn't see it. Must have been some other attraction, but he could tell from the way House had been acting all week that whatever he had had with Mark's wife had been intense and very serious. If he hadn't been right about the diagnosis, even with the wife's oral consent not to sue, his license…Foreman was still amazed that he'd done something that so clearly violated the patient's wishes, especially now that he knew something about House's history and his leg—how it got messed up. Well, okay, House violated the patient's wishes all the time—that wasn't in itself shocking—but in this case…

He, Cameron, and Chase had gone out after House's diagnostics lecture and discussed him pretty heavily. It had become clear to them all as they sat in the back row of the auditorium why he pushed them so hard and why he was so miserable. Having your lover violate your wishes in a life or death situation like that, especially when he'd made it so clear that he didn't want surgery, was devastating (didn't want the surgery—Foreman thought that was so idiotic: even if he had made it through the post-op complications without major organ damage, the dead muscle would still have to be removed: there was going to be a debridement either way, so why not avoid the pain and go right to it? This only added more confirmation to his belief that House was insane.) But that kind of a situation…it would be hard to come out of that normal no matter who you were. Still, House had to have known he'd need the necrotic muscle removed eventually…

A thought struck him right before he reached the stairs. Had House refused immediate debridement because he'd wanted to die? Was that it? Was it such a blow to his ego, knowing he'd never have his leg be normal again, that he refused surgery after he'd already coded once? 'The patient was technically dead for over a minute.' Jesus. What kind of person would rather chance death than have the part of his body that was killing him fixed? Foreman didn't buy the implicit message in House's lecture that "the patient" might have retained greater use of his leg if he'd stuck it out. Five percent more—ten percent maybe. It was hard for him to say, not having been there, but in the face of cardiac arrest and organ failure, five or ten percent meant exactly zero. He shook his head. House's pride didn't seem to have changed any.

He had some ideas now, but when they'd first gone out after the lecture they hadn't reached any conclusions. Cameron had become more and more distant as the evening progressed and Chase had gotten louder and stupider. House brought out the deep, cutting unresolved issues both of them had in the worst way: Chase's problems with his father, authority and trust, and Cameron's problem with needing to save the world. Which, by themselves, weren't big problems—difficult, yes, but manageable. House was like a magnifying glass with the two of them, amplifying their wounds so his wouldn't seem so devastating. Foreman wondered what House brought out in him. His competitive streak? Maybe. The same talent, devotion, and will House possessed wrapped up in a nicer package? Sleeker, shinier, better looking? Younger? But no, that wasn't quite it. House brought out his anger.

It had taken him the better part of a year to figure out why House pissed him off so much: it was because he and House were so similar and he did _not _like the idea of turning in to House one day. He knew all of the necessary ingredients were inside him: a good dose of anger and aggression that had gotten him in trouble before and made him bitter over his mistakes. But he liked to think that he'd learned from his mistakes, overcome the anger and bitterness, and moved on. Like he'd done with House: he'd been angry at first—at House's apparent racism which he later found out didn't exist, at House's apathy which he also found out didn't exist like he'd thought it had, at House's laziness, etc.—before he realized that he was angry because House reminded him of a younger version of himself. After that, he was bitter that he'd let his anger control him, but then he'd moved on because he knew it was in his power to avoid becoming House. Keeping anger and bitterness in check were a huge part of that. So he did. And, hell, it wasn't that hard to do. But maybe for House it was.

Mark's wife. Stacy. He wondered what issue of Stacy's House had brought out. She seemed to have the same control freak tendencies House had…maybe that was it. The working all the time thing, too.

Foreman shook his head as he pushed open the door to the conference room. What kind of wife goes right back to work as soon as her husband is no longer in immediate danger of dying, _especially _when she doesn't even work in the same town he's hospitalized in? What kind of wife _gets a job _the second her husband turns the corner? He understood, of course, that many people used work as an escape from personal problems or as a way to distract themselves from situations they had no control over. But if anyone had control over Mark's situation, it was Stacy. Hell, she'd gotten House not only to take the case but she'd pushed him jeopardize his license and his career in order to diagnose the guy—a guy he _hated_. She was pretty damn well in control of _that_ situation. Maybe if they needed the money—he could understand that too—but they looked well enough off that she didn't have to take a new job and work Saturdays to make ends meet. And Cuddy offering her a job, what was _that_ all about? He knew House and Cuddy had a history—that was another thing he speculated about with his colleagues after work—but this was something else entirely.

But it wasn't his place to make judgments. All of it did, however, add to the mystery surrounding House's personal past. Which wasn't any of his business either.

He sighed to himself. The entire week had been one nasty, prolonged head trip. He felt sorry for House, having to treat the spouse of the only woman (as far as Foreman could tell) who'd ever loved him. And it was painfully obvious that he wasn't over her. Foreman didn't know what to expect when House came in Monday—_if _House came in Monday, since now seemed like a pretty good time for him to stay home and sulk, and Foreman wouldn't blame him if he did—but he hoped House came in yelling at them or smart-assing and playing the race card, the woman card, and the foreigner card. Yelling, smart-assing, abuse—he could deal with all of those. They meant House was okay. Anything else…

Foreman shook his head again. Not something he had control over. _Do your job and go home, Eric_, his father had told him when his supervisor at one of his college jobs had started pushing his buttons at work, _just do your job and go home_.

He picked up the phone to make Mark an appointment with a nutritionist.

* * *

House woke slowly, mouth gluey with sleep and drugs. Soft beep of the heart monitor. Television off. The annoying overhead fluorescent light off. Dim light from the window in its place. Sunset. Calm. Quiet.

He rubbed his good eye with his left hand and looked around. No sitter? Something wasn't right.

"Greg."

He knew that voice. Cuddy.

"Don't call me that," he rasped out, "I'm not dying."

"Not yet," she said.

He heard her move and the sound of water being poured. "Want some water?"

"No," he said in a rusty voice. He was thirstier than he'd been in a long time but he wouldn't sit through Cuddy holding a straw to his lips or moving his bed or touching him or doing anything for him. It was bad enough with the nurses and Wilson; if one more person treated him like he was helpless he'd snap. It didn't matter to him that he _was_, in fact, helpless. He had his pride.

He turned his head to try to get a look at her. She _would_ sit on his blind side.

"Where's the shrink?" he asked, swallowing against his dry throat. "I thought you'd have me scheduled for a lobotomy by now."

"Tomorrow," Cuddy said softly.

"Uh, I'd like to be alone tonight if you know what I mean," House said as he made a suggestive jerking motion with his hand and leered at her as well as his broken face would let him. "Lefty needs practice if he's ever going to get any good."

"Wilson will be here," she said sarcastically, "I'm sure he can help you with any unforeseen headaches."

"Wilson snores," House said dismissively.

"Not as loudly as you do," she pointed out.

"Uhh, maybe you haven't noticed, but my nose is a little broken right now," he said. "I'm snoring impaired for the time being." He turned his head more so he could see her better. "Seriously," he said, "where are you hiding the shrink? If I'm going to play mind games today—and I sense that I am—I'd like to do it with someone who isn't predisposed to thinking I'm a lunatic already. And someone who can sign off so I can get the hell out of here. Not that I don't love your adorable staff…"

Cuddy donned the 'you are such an idiot' face and glared at him. "She'll be in to see you tomorrow morning. Wilson and I felt you could use some rest before you saw her."

"Is that why _you're_ here?" he scoffed. "Making sure I get my rest? I can't rest if someone's watching me 24/7. It's creepy."

"Wouldn't be necessary if you hadn't forced the issue," she said tightly.

"Oh _come on_," House said, "How many times do I have to…I made a mistake. That's all. Or do you just get off on hearing me admit to it?"

"It is a nice change from your usual stance of infallibility," Cuddy said, "but I'm sorry. It's just too early. What you did is too big."

"Do you have any _idea_ how many fights I've been in?" House said. "This," he indicated to his body, "is nothing."

"You know I'm not talking about the fight," she said with narrowed eyes.

"I lost count," House explained. "That was all. It happens."

"You've never lost count of anything in your life," Cuddy said, starting to feel angry.

"No harm was done," House said. "I don't need you or Wilson or Cameron or anyone to save me from myself because _I don't need saving_. I'm _fine_."

Cuddy glared at him for a long moment. Damn him, he'd pushed her to it.

"Stacy asked about you," she said.

House flinched. He hadn't expected that.

"And?" he sneered. "Should I send her flowers? Chocolates? Nominate her for Ex of the Year?"

"She got the charges against you dropped," Cuddy explained.

"And I should be, what? thankful?" he snarled. "It's her job."

"You're lucky she's very good at her job," Cuddy said. "And very persuasive. The cop you hit didn't want to let it go. He was going to push for the maximum sentence. She persuaded him otherwise."

"Yeah, I know exactly how persuasive she is," House said under his breath, teeth clenched. But he didn't want to do this. He didn't want to fight. He felt okay physically and he just wanted to watch tv and not think about anything.

Aloud, he said, "That's too bad. I was _so_ looking forward to jail. Once Martha Stewart does it, I _have _to do it."

"You take keeping up with the Joneses to a new level," Cuddy said sardonically. She always walked a tightrope with House. She'd been losing her balance a few seconds ago, but now she was back in position.

"Martha's a babe," House said. "I make exceptions for her." He paused. "How's Mick?"

"Mark," she corrected.

"Whatever."

"Foreman's keeping an eye on him," she said. "I thought you didn't care about a patient once you cured him."

"This is the part where I say AIP has no cure, but instead of telling you something you already know, how about instead I say that maybe I take an interest when his condition determines how long a certain someone will be hanging around," House said. He shrugged his left shoulder lightly. "Or that once every thousand patients I actually give a crap and he's lucky number one zero zero zero. Whichever helps you sleep better at night."

"He's responding to treatment," she said. "Labs look good. You wanna see them?"

"Do I look like I want to see them?" he said with annoyance. "Give the case to Foreman. He's the neurologist."

"You left a treatment plan, right?"

House gave her a look: stupid question.

"Okay," she said. "How much do you want me to tell him?"

House waved his good hand dismissively. "I don't care. Make something up. Tell him I ran away with Wilson to Vegas. Or Massachusetts or Vermont or something. Wherever that's legal."

Cuddy pursed her lips and said nothing. This was Wilson's area.

She took a deep breath and fingered the folder that was in her lap. Was he ready to hear this from her? No. But he looked as ready as he'd get. What's more, he didn't have any time for her to waste on indecision.

She held up the folder and made sure she had his attention.

"What about _your_labs?" she said.

House looked away. "I don't need to see them," he said.

"You're going to have to do something," Cuddy said.

House said nothing, mouth set.

"And when it starts interfering with your work?" she said. "I know you don't have a life." She snorted a laugh then turned serious again. "But this job…"

"I can do my job," he said through clenched teeth. "I'm _fine_."

"That's it?" she said disbelievingly, throwing her hands in the air. "You give up? You just give up?"

"I can deal with this myself," he said coldly. "I don't need you and Wilson trying to force me into treatment. I've had enough of that for one lifetime."

"You know, your thyroid level might be low," she said musingly. "I wonder if I can get a court order…" She stared hard at him to hammer the point home.

He rolled his eyes. "It's not cute when you do it."

"Yeah, you're so adorable I actually _like _cleaning up your messes."

"I already told you," he said, "I don't like needy sex." He waved a dismissive hand. "Shouldn't you be playing golf or something?"

"Shouldn't you be at home doing whatever it is you do on Saturdays?" she countered.

He started to respond and she held up a hand. "No, don't tell me," she said. "I have enough nightmares as it is."

"One word," he said, unable to resist, "okay, two words: whipped cream."

He smiled wickedly at her shudder.

"IA," he volunteered. "Insomniacs Anonymous. Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Y. You should join us. Cure for what ails ya."

"You? At a group meeting?" she said skeptically. "I'd pay to see that."

"Okay, it's really just midnight basketball with crackheads and run-aways, but we _connect_," House said. "Those kids…they're really something."

"Is it cold in here to you?" she said with a shiver. "I think hell just froze over."

"Pity," he said, glancing from her face to her revealing blouse and back. "You're dressed for the beach."

She gave him an annoyed smile. Then her look changed and she dropped her eyes to the floor.

"It's not going to go away just because you want it to," she said soberly with a hint of sadness.

"It's my problem," he said tightly, hackles raised again. "Not yours. Not Wilson's." _When _would she quit bugging him about this?

"I was serious about the court order," she said.

"Going to get _Stacy_," he spat the name out, "to help you? Ex saves hubby, now she owes him one? She saves ex, now we're even?"

"You'd like to hold it over her head forever, wouldn't you," Cuddy said. "Since you saved his life, you don't owe her yours anymore. You want to keep it that way."

"I didn't owe her anything in the first pace," he snarled. "She signed my right to life away the second you put me under."

"Bullshit!" she said. "She saved you and you know it. That's why you're so damn bitter."

"I didn't need saving," he growled.

"Were you _there_!" she said in utter disbelief. "You were dead. _Dead_."

"Should've left me that way," he mumbled.

"You really want to die?" she asked. "Is that what this is about? You just got angry and started a fight before you passed out and let the pills finished the job? You won't screw it up next time?" Tears stung her eyes; she blinked hard to force them back.

"It wasn't like that," he said tightly. "I just needed to take my mind off of it. It was a mistake."

"So you're allowed to make mistakes but she's not?" Cuddy said incredulously. "No one else is?"

"I'm allowed to make mistakes when it's my life," he snarled.

"And you expect me to forgive you when you won't forgive her?"

"This is a totally different situation," House said. "No one has to forgive me. _It's my life_."

"Yours to throw away?" she said.

"Mine to screw up," he said tightly. "And mine to fix. But _mine _either way."

She sighed, annoyed that she'd let herself get angry, and stood to leave. This wasn't helping him.

"Appadurai's going to see you at nine tomorrow," she said.

"What for?" House said caustically. "I thought this was a very therapeutic session. I'm all better, ready to rejoin society, a reformed man."

"Tomorrow at nine," she repeated. "The more you jerk her around, the longer you stay here."

"Is that a threat, boss?" he said.

"If it has to be," she said.

House watched her go. When the door slid shut, he slammed his head against the pillow angrily. She was one of the few people who knew how to push his buttons, but she hadn't done it in a long time. She and Stacy. Wilson knew how too, but he had the courtesy not to do it. But Stacy. God, he didn't need to think about Stacy. Not now, not ever.

The door rolled open and Alicia came in with yet another sitter. He turned on the tv while she took his vitals and flipped aimlessly around to distract himself from what she was doing. She stooped to look at something below the level of the bed and he wondered briefly what she was doing. Oh. Foley. Dammit.

She moved the bed so he could sit up and told him they were holding his dinner. He asked for a few minutes to wake up properly and she nodded, smiling, and left.

Just him and the sitter now and the sitter had buried herself in a magazine. _People_ the cover said. He changed the channel to E! and pretended to be interested in the program. He had a plan.

Slowly he drew his left leg up, not without some grunts, and started massaging his thigh with his left hand, bringing his right arm over to rest in the ridge where his hip met his body, fingers against his left thigh, forming a nondescript lump under the sheet and blanket.

She glanced up at him: awake and aware, absorbed in the television program, rubbing his leg under the covers. Looked innocuous enough to her and she returned to her magazine.

He saw her do all of this out of the corner of his eye and hid a smirk. So easy. He kept working on his thigh for a few minutes until he knew she was satisfied that he wasn't up to something. Then he carefully moved his right hand away from his left leg, lifting it up just enough to slip his left hand under the bulky bandage that was keeping his wrist together. He felt around surreptitiously until he found the right spot on the catheter and deflated the balloon, all while keeping his eyes trained on the tv.

Years of masking pain made it easy for him to hide his winces as he eased the tube out. Nothing on his face changed as the tube came free and he let it drop where it was. He fought the incredible urge to pee and started rubbing his thigh again to make the illusion complete.

She glanced up to check on him and found him just as he'd been. He massaged his muscles for a little while and then chanced a quick rub of his dick. Christ, that hurt. He slowly withdrew his bandaged right hand and slid his leg back down.

Voila.

Much easier than waiting on Wilson.

He still had the irresistible urge to pee, though. Damn the drawbacks of impatience.

He glanced around the room. No urinal. But he'd give himself away if he asked for it anyway. He'd have to wait it out. And he knew his bladder was empty. The urge, though, the damnable _urge_.

He tried not to squirm.

He felt better by the time Alicia brought what passed for dinner in and set it up for him. The doctor in him screamed _wash your hands_ but what the hell. It wasn't anything he couldn't suck out of a straw.

He stared at the tv as he knocked back a bottle of juice. E!'s news was harder to follow than usual. If he couldn't follow the news, he probably couldn't do much in the 'what the hell just happened here?' department either. God bless drugs.

He pawed at the jello and waited for Wilson to show.

* * *

**A/N con't **

IN – Thanks. Glad you liked the 'I'm not pregnant line.' That line started the scene for me and I'm very fond of it as a line. More House/Wilson in the next chapter. :)

Merrie – Good news on 'Housian Dynamics'! I'm still on the edge of my seat. And it's good you're giving them each time. I let mine run wild with me, as you can see with this one and the neglected other fics. But I find it helps me clear my head about the other fics if I'm absorbed in one for a while – I go back to the other fics with new insight. And of course, glad you're liking the angst. I love me some House angst. It's about to get much, _much_ angstier for House. Poor House.

LEoL – A long review, eh? Good thing my summer class ends tomorrow and I have a horrible desert wasteland of minimum wage job to look forward to till mid-August – _lots _of time to write a thorough review. :) 'Thursday' is in the works. Another chapter or so of fluff there before things start nose-diving. This fic won't leave me alone right now, though, so it's getting written first. But thanks for asking about 'Thursday'. :)

MagickalStar135 – Thanks! I'm not sure how far I'm going to go with the Wilson-checks-the-bar out since I've got a whole lot of downright _mean_ stuff queued up for this fic that I'm eager to get to. But it may happen. :) Thanks again for the review!

Taylor – Thanks! ffnet can email you automatically when the story's updated. You have to sign up for an account, but that's free and easy to do. At the bottom of the story's page, there's a drop-down menu that starts with 'submit a review'. Just open the menu and find 'add story to story alert' and it'll email you automatically whenever an update's posted. :)

Thanks to all the reading lurkers for reading too! ;)


	13. Paradise City

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship. The ducks may or may not be involved later.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings: **Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.  
**Spoilers: **"The Honeymoon" et al  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **To the squeamish, apologies for the fart joke. But if Dante gets one… ;)

More at the end.

* * *

**Thirteen: Paradise City**

_And then the company of devils turned,_

_Wheeling along the left-hand bank. But first_

_Each signaled their leader with the same grimace:_

_Baring their teeth, through which the tongue was pressed;_

_And the leader made a trumpet of his ass_.

—Dante, _The Inferno_, Canto XXI, trans. Robert Pinksy

Wilson approached the nurse's station, small duffel bag in hand. A shower, a quick homemade dinner with Julie, and a change into real clothes made him feel so much better. Plus he got to drive the Vette and that was just cool. The circumstances, though…

He'd copied the address of the bar out of the police report after he talked to Cuddy about the House's test results and the early onset of his withdrawal symptoms. They'd agreed that all they could really do was watch him carefully and make him as comfortable as possible. Otherwise, he was looking okay physically. The other stuff—the hard stuff—would just have to wait until tomorrow.

Cuddy had gone to sit with him and Wilson had gone home. Julie was as understanding as she could be about it. She was used to him getting called to the hospital at all hours and sometimes not returning for lengthy stretches of time. He'd called her earlier to let her know what was up, that he wouldn't be home for lunch and might miss dinner too. She didn't ask why and he didn't feel the need to explain it over the phone. He didn't know why he bothered to call at all any more. It wasn't like she cared. She was going to do what she was going to do anyway, no matter what he said. It was a habit, he supposed.

But it was good for them to have time apart now for the sole reason that it gave them something to say to each other when they were together again. If she'd been at all surprised when he said he'd be gone for the night and started packing a bag, she hadn't shown it. House was always getting into something that took her husband away from her. But House wasn't the real problem. They just didn't work. It was that simple. They'd rushed into marriage and managed to float for a few years on sex, charm, and not spending too much time together, but it just wasn't working. They couldn't sit down and talk to each other. They'd never really been able to, but the flush of romance had taken care of that. Now they just lived together, screwed occasionally, paid the bills, and got what they really needed from others.

Wilson had pecked her on the cheek goodbye—another habit—and gone outside to call a cab. He'd been amazed to find House's car in one piece. It hadn't even been keyed. Astounding. But then, House had parked it in an out-of-the-way place.

Wilson recognized the brick building and red door immediately. He'd only been there a few times—it wasn't his scene, even when he wanted to get fighting drunk—but he knew House wouldn't have had to work hard to talk himself into serious trouble there.

He went in and pushed his way to the bar, motioning to the bartender.

"When you get a second, can I talk to you?" he yelled over "Fade to Black" on the PA.

The bartender squinted at him. "You a cop?" he asked.

"No," Wilson yelled. "I'm here about my friend. He was in a fight last night here. Guy with a cane."

The bartender nodded. "Yeah, I remember him," he said. "Hang on."

He went to the register and picked up a set of keys, putting them in his pocket, then bent down to retrieve something below the bar.

"Joey!" he yelled, "I'm takin' five!" and motioned with his head for Wilson to follow him.

Outside, he flipped a cigarette out of the pack with one hand and had it lit in record time. He flipped another one out and offered it to Wilson.

"No, thanks," Wilson said.

The bartender shrugged, put the pack away, and passed him House's cane and jacket.

"Left these," he said. He dug the keys out of his pocket. "And these." He flicked the ash off his cigarette. "Best if he didn't come back. I don't like banning people and he seemed like a good guy, but I don't like the cops here either, so best if he stays away."

Wilson nodded. "I'll tell him that," he said.

"He okay?" the bartender asked. "He got beat pretty bad."

"He will be," Wilson said. "What happened?"

"He came in, did a bunch of shots, and picked a fight with a guy twice as big as him," he said blowing smoke out. "Weren't pretty, 'specially a fella with a limp."

"Yeah," Wilson said. He held up the jacket and cane. "Thanks for saving these. He'll want them back."

The bartender shrugged. "Guy tipped good."

Wilson shook the jacket lightly in his hand. No rattling. "He had some pills with him," Wilson said. "In his jacket."

The bartender's eyes darted at him and then away. "I don't know nothin' bout no pills," he said. He took a quick drag and flicked the half-finished cigarette to the pavement.

"No problem," Wilson said. He held out his hand. "Thanks."

The bartender shook it quickly. "No problem," he said and went back inside.

Wilson put out the discarded cigarette with his shoe and walked back to House's car. He turned the cane over in his hand. Scratched and chipped in a few places, dirty and sticky. It was new, too. He laid it across the passenger's seat and told himself he'd clean it up before he gave it back to House.

It was weird, handling House's cane. Like touching his bad leg. It was always off-limits, always taboo unless House mentioned it first. He didn't think about the cane much. It was part of House. What was strange was that it was by itself right now. It didn't seem to have an existence outside of House and yet here it was on its own. He'd already invaded House's personal space enough for one day, so he shifted his eyes from it to House's bag. No doubt House would want some of the things he had in there.

Wilson started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot toward House's apartment, but he couldn't enjoy the drive like he wanted to. Not in his best friend's car with his best friend's keys and cane, going to his best friend's apartment while his best friend was laid up miles away. It wasn't right.

Wilson let himself in to House's apartment and breathed the familiar smell of it. He noticed his punching bag and kicked it half-heartedly before going to the bedroom. As usual, House's stuff was everywhere: clothes, books, the twenty pairs of shoes House owned, all strewn about.

He tossed House's jacket on to the unmade bed and added a change of clothes for House to his duffel bag. He added House's razor and toothbrush and picked a few journals out of the mess in House's bedroom and living room. Bad things happened when House wasn't occupied. His iPod wasn't on its docking station and Wilson didn't feel like looking for it, so he turned the lights off and locked the door behind him.

He rifled through House's bag once he was back in the car and found the iPod and the Gameboy. Both had obviously been smashed. He placed them in his duffel bag anyway and zipped it up.

It was nearly eight by the time he had the car parked in House's spot and got to the fifth floor. He stopped at the nurse's station to look over House's chart and check in with the night nurses. House hadn't managed to scare another sitter off yet and he'd apparently been a good boy for the past few hours. _Must've been asleep_, Wilson thought.

He opened the door and stepped in. House looked good: sitting up, dinner tray touched if not empty, attention on the television. Baseball. Wilson nodded at the sitter to leave. She glanced at the hospital ID clipped to his shirt pocket, gathered up the dinner tray, and left without a word.

"I come bearing gifts," Wilson said triumphantly and put the bag down in the chair.

"Hang on a second," House said holding a finger up with a look of concentration on his face. "Ahhh, that's much better."

"Dude," Wilson said as he pulled his shirt collar over his nose and waved his hand back and forth. "Thanks," he said sarcastically.

"It's impolite in front of the ladies," House said. "You said something about gifts?"

"Wait till the stinkbomb clears," Wilson said still waving his hand back and forth in the air. "Jeez."

House shrugged. "The nurses have been bugging me about it."

"And you take it out on me?" Wilson said. "Some friend."

"Next time I'll ask you to pull my finger first," House said. "C'mon, what's in the bag?"

"Ten very old fart jokes," Wilson said letting his shirt fall back to its normal position. He made a face as he pulled House's keys out of his pocket and jingled them.

"Car's fine," he said. "The bartender doesn't ever want to see your ugly mug again."

House shrugged again, one-sidedly. "Place was a hole anyway," he said.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "You know how to pick 'em."

He put the keys back in his pocket, moved the bag, and sat down. He made another face. "Seriously, man, let me know in advance next time so I can get out the Lysol."

"Quit whining," House said. "I was saving that one for you."

"Keep it up and the bag disappears," Wilson threatened.

"Oh come on," House said, turning his attention to the television. "I know you've only got your dirty gym shorts in there."

Wilson held his hands up, "Hey, if you don't want to see what's in the bag, that's your prerogative."

House stuck his nose in the air. "Maybe I don't," he sniffed.

Wilson eyed him. When the superior expression didn't leave House's face, Wilson sat back nonchalantly in the chair, turned his attention to the television, and said, "What's the score?"

"Me 1, You 0," House said. He concentrated again. "Me 2, You 0."

"You might wanna be careful with a challenge like that," Wilson said. "Julie fed me something with beans in it. _And _I have the keys to your car."

"Leave Foxy Mama out of this," House said.

"I thought her name was Alotta Fagina," Wilson said.

"That might be _your_ name for her," House said. "I'm more original."

"Come on," Wilson said. "You took a Hendrix song and changed one word."

"Hendrix _always_ beats Mike Myers," House said. "More of a genius _and_ he's got the dead thing going for him."

Wilson grumbled something, slouched, and watched the game on television, making a show of ignoring House. He counted to twenty before glancing over and catching House eyeing the bag.

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "Knew you couldn't resist."

House rolled his eyes. "Come on, then," he said, "show us your shorts."

Wilson grinned victoriously and unzipped the bag. "Just a few amenities," he said. He held up House's razor. "I see you have one of these," he said. "Now if you ever want to know how it works, just say the word and—"

"Shaddup," House said.

"Toothbrush," Wilson said holding it up.

"Where was _that_ when I needed it?" House grumbled.

Wilson glared at him and set the toothbrush aside. "All you had to do was ask," he said.

"I'm not paying Cuddy's accountants four bucks for an off-brand toothbrush I'll only use once," House said.

Wilson shrugged and turned back to the bag.

"Some bad news on the entertainment front," he said as he held up the Gameboy and iPod. "I know you were angry, but why did innocent gadgets have to suffer?" He put them on the table. "On the other hand, I think the iPod can be fixed. The Gameboy I'm not so sure about. Gives you something to do, anyway."

"You better pull a stripper out of there next or this'll officially be the most boring bag ever," House said.

Wilson threw up his hands. "It's official," he said. "The rest is just clothes."

"Which are only there to tempt me," House said plucking at the gown he was in.

"Think of it as delayed positive reinforcement," Wilson said.

"Oh God, not the psychobabble already," House groaned. "Freud's cigar may not have been just a cigar, but my clothes really are just my clothes."

"I don't know," Wilson said wickedly and grabbed a t-shirt. "Let's see," he said holding it up, "Guns 'N Roses, what does that tell us?"

"That Paradise City is the rock anthem to end all rock anthems," House said.

"Nope," Wilson said grinning. "I think it means that someone has a crush on the bad boy with the locks of gold," Wilson taunted. "Or is the mysterious and moody chain-smoking lead guitarist more your type?"

"That's it, doctor, you've solved my problem!" House said dramatically. "I'm hot for Slash! Oh, if I'd only known sooner! Do you think he's still single? I bet I can bribe him with drugs. God knows my tits aren't what they used to be."

Wilson balled the shirt up and threw it at House, who caught it, laughing lightly, and threw it back awkwardly with his left hand.

"You've gotta teach me all your southpaw tricks now that I've joined the club," House said.

"No way, man," Wilson said stuffing the shirt back in the bag. "You didn't spend all of kindergarten having your crayons shoved the wrong hand over and over again until your mother finally called the school and told them off."

"Oooo, what does that tell us about _your _problems," House said vindictively. "I always knew mommy would come into it eventually."

He scanned the room, suddenly uninterested in the conversation.

"Where the _hell_ did they hide the urinal," he said. "Or the better question, _why_ would it be hidden? Not the sort of thing I'd hide…"

"What are you talking about?" Wilson asked.

House stopped looking over the room to stare at Wilson as though he'd just sprouted horns. "The plastic thing," he said sarcastically, "that you pee in. See, it's got a hole in the top so you can—"

"_Why_ do you want one?" Wilson interrupted.

"I'd have thought that'd be obvious by now," House said dryly.

Wilson looked at him, confused. "The nurses didn't say…"

House's sarcastic look didn't change and Wilson realized what he was saying.

"_You_ did it," he accused.

House raised his eyebrows slightly in confirmation.

Wilson sat back, thinking. "And they don't know…" he said to himself. "How'd you manage that? I mean, without…"

House shrugged his left shoulder. "I know a trick," he said. "Now if you could find the plastic thing with the hole in the top…"

Wilson got up and found it. "You're incorrigible," he said as he handed it to House.

House just smiled. "Scat," he said. "I'm not taking a piss in front of you."

Wilson gave him a stern look, but went to the door and let himself out.

House fumbled around until he figured out a left-hand right-hand equation that wouldn't end in soaked sheets and reveled in having control over part of his body again. He added to the fragrance of the room again too before he finished, because those things went hand in hand, and shook. Nice, fresh, healthy urine that he really wished he could cast in to the porcelain abyss. Having his in's and out's tallied bothered him to no end. _Oh, yes, Gregory's a good boy, he voids ten point six four ounces for every twelve he takes in every six hours, you can set your watch to him_. _His pH balance is unrivaled_. A totally different kind of pissing contest.

He waited for Wilson, noticing how the gown barely covered him at all when he was sitting. While he was all for going commando on certain occasions, he wanted the security of an extra layer of cloth between him and the outside world right now. Wilson probably had boxers in that bag of his somewhere…

He waited patiently, happy to be alone for once, until Wilson opened the door flanked by two nurses.

"You tattled," House accused, looking past Wilson at the nurses.

"You made me," Wilson retorted.

"I didn't _make_ you do anything," House said as one of the nurses took the jug from him and noted the volume before taking it in to the bathroom while the other one gathered up the Foley.

"You said you'd take it out this afternoon," House whined.

"I got distracted," Wilson said, sitting down and turning his attention to the television.

"Yeah, well, I don't like waiting," House said petulantly.

"No kidding," Wilson commented.

The nurse with the urinal returned and left it within House's reach, then asked for his arm. House grudgingly stuck it out and turned to Wilson.

"When are you gonna call off these constant checks?" he grumbled.

"When I'm sure you're not slowly bleeding to death," Wilson said.

House grumbled something to himself and Wilson took his eyes off the tv to look expectantly at the nurse.

"118 over 78," she said to him.

"See," House said, "not bleeding."

"98.4," the nurse said to Wilson.

"No infection either," House said smugly.

"Tomorrow," Wilson said.

"Everything's tomorrow," House grumbled. "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."

"Oh no," Wilson said, "Shakespeare won't get you anywhere. I know for a fact you can quote him in your sleep."

"Shut up," House said. "She's got some questions."

The nurse, who'd been waiting patiently while House and Wilson snipped at each other, smiled at him. Wilson rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the game on tv while House answered the questions.

The nurse offered House a meal sheet to fill out.

"I get to choose what color jello I get?" House said with annoyance, not taking the proffered sheet. "Give it to that chucklehead over there," he said nodding to Wilson.

Wilson smiled apologetically and took the sheet from her on her way out.

"Eventually you're going to learn not to piss the nurses off," Wilson told him and looked over the sheet, pulling a pen out of his shirt pocket. "You've got the Roy G. Biv of jello selection here," he said. "What suits your fancy?"

"Pick something for me," House said dismissively.

"And have you bitch when it arrives tomorrow?" Wilson said. "No thanks. You're picking." He ticked each choice with his pen, surprised at some of them. "Since when does jello come in lemon?"

"Forget the jello," House said distractedly.

Wilson looked up at him curiously.

"You don't have a pair of boxers in that bag, do you?" House asked.

"I just might," he said, leaning over to dig through the bag. "But if I give you these, you've got to promise to stop pulling things out on your own."

House gave him a 'who do you think I am?' look. "Do I look like I'm ready for a jailbreak?" he said, gesturing with his left hand to his body.

Wilson eyed him suspiciously and clutched the boxers he'd been ready to offer to his chest.

"You always look ready for a jailbreak," he said.

"Whatever," House said, hand outstretched. "Hand 'em over."

He moved his left leg up in an attempt to reach across his body with his left hand and in the process bent his right leg on accident. He winced and hissed, left hand dropping to the mattress on his right side to keep him from falling back against the raised bed, twisting his delicate upper body. He bit his lip and eased back until he didn't need his hand to hold him up any longer and tried to shake it off as a mistake so Wilson wouldn't bother him about it. When the sharp jolts of pain subsided enough for him to unclench his face, he glanced over at Wilson who was watching him worriedly, poised on the edge of his chair and ready to leap to the rescue.

"Moved to quickly," House said through a wince. Wilson relaxed but remained guarded.

He tried to straighten his right leg back out, thinking it would help, and hissed involuntarily. It had hurt all day, but not like this. Not like this. He'd thought he might've done something but when it hadn't started hurting and had looked okay, he'd forgotten all about it. It wasn't going away, though. It was getting worse.

His face was tight with pain again. He couldn't bend to reach it, so he tipped his head back instead, teeth gritted.

"What is it?" Wilson asked, on his feet and very worried. "You didn't—"

"No," House cut him off, knowing Wilson was thinking it was his mid-section, "it's my damn leg."

He hissed sharply again. It was definitely getting worse. Dammit.

"The knee," he said tightly, "I must've—_shit_—done something. I don't know. Sprained it or something."

"When did this happen?" Wilson asked quickly, eyes on the blanket covering House's legs. "Last night?"

"Same time as this," House said, breathing quickly with pain, and held up his right arm. "Damn thing gave out on me."

"Why didn't you say anything earlier?" Wilson asked.

"I was distracted by the forty other places the guy hit me," House said bitingly. "And it always hurts anyway. Takes me a while to—aghh—notice it when something else goes wrong."

Wilson eased the sheet and blanket away from House's leg. He cursed at what he saw: House's knee, red and swollen. Their eyes met briefly: House's pained, Wilson's near frantic, both thinking the same thing.

Wilson stepped quickly to the door. "I'm paging the on-call attending for ortho," he said as he stuck his head out and called two nurses over, one to get ice and the other to watch House.

He glanced back at House. "Don't move," he ordered.

He realized the idiocy of what he'd said before House could glare at him and turned back. "Shit, okay, dumb thing to say, but stay right there," he turned to leave and then turned back again. "Shit! Just stay!" he said gesturing wildly at House.

If House hadn't been in so much pain, he would've been amused. He _was_ amused, sort of, in a painful way. But Wilson never lost it around anyone and seeing him come unglued like this made the fear House had been feeling intensify, his too-quick brain reviewing possible diagnoses. None was good; that much he knew for certain.

The nurse who'd been sent to watch him saw his knee and lowered the head of the bed gently, much to his annoyance, before grabbing an extra pillow out of the room's small closet.

"Don't. Touch. My leg," House growled when she approached.

"Sir, I—"

"Don't!" House roared.

"Sir—"

"Give it to me," he said lowly, left hand outstretched.

"Sir—"

"Give it to me!" he snapped. "Now! It's _my_ leg!"

"House!" Wilson reproved, coming in to the room trailed by a nurse with an ice pack.

House clenched his teeth and glared angrily at Wilson.

Wilson gently took the pillow from the shaken nurse and asked for two more. He nodded to the nurse with the ice pack to lay it on House's knee. She did quickly and stepped away from the bed as though he would bite.

"Your pal Masterson's on call," Wilson said. "He'll be here soon."

"Great," House said miserably.

The other nurse arrived with the pillows and Wilson directed the two of them quickly. "I'm going to lift his leg," he said. "You slide one under his knee and you slide the other two under his foot. As quickly as possible. On three, okay?"

They nodded in tandem.

"Why not just raise the foot of the bed?" House said through his teeth.

"You just had surgery," Wilson said. "I'm not risking it."

House's jaw clenched but he said nothing. He knew Wilson was right.

Wilson moved the ice pack from House's knee and looked at him: he was a sickly white in the fluorescent lighting and he had started sweating.

"House," Wilson said making sure he had his attention, "deep breath."

House nodded imperceptibly and turned his eyes to the ceiling as Wilson slid his hands carefully under his calf and lower thigh. He could feel House's body tense in preparation.

"One…two…_three_."

He lifted, the nurses shoved, and House screamed.

Wilson laid the ice pack back on House's knee and barked out an order for fifty micrograms of Fentanyl.

House was panting and started coughing, then wrapped his arm around his ribs and moaned.

"I'm never…telling you…anything…again," he whispered.

Wilson went to the foot of the bed and smiled bravely at House.

"I'm going to check your pulses, okay?" Wilson said, right hand hovering over House's limp foot. "I'll be very, very careful."

"Don't touch me," House said breathlessly.

"I'm just going to check," Wilson coaxed.

"No way," House panted. "Hurts too much." He coughed again and pressed his arm against his ribs, cursing.

"I need to," Wilson said. "I'll be careful, I promise."

"No, dammit," House growled, "it _hurts_." He coughed again and grimaced. "You're not touching me."

Wilson stared at him hard. He knew House was in pain but this was ridiculous. He'd barely have to touch him to check his tibial pulses.

"It fucking hurts," House said hoarsely, his voice cracking. "You're not going near it."

Then Wilson realized what House was telling him: he didn't want the pulses in his foot checked because he wasn't sure they'd be there. Wilson's stomach hit the floor. He tried to keep the realization off his face but he could tell House knew what he was thinking.

"Wiggle your toes, okay?" Wilson said, unable to keep the tension—the fear, anger, and worry—out of his voice.

House turned his eyes to the ceiling and dug his left hand into the mattress before he tried.

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief, a huge grin breaking out on his face as a nurse entered with the Fentanyl. House coughed and breathed easier.

Wilson nodded at her to go ahead. "Have 25 of Phenergan ready, too," he said to her.

To House he said, "Let me know if you start feeling sick, okay?"

House grunted, still staring at the ceiling, left hand gripping the sheets.

Wilson watched him until his face relaxed and his grip loosened, eyes clouding over, lids fluttering.

"I'm going to check now, okay?" he said.

House didn't say anything. Taking it as a tacit yes, Wilson carefully took his foot in hand.

"Can you feel that?" he asked placing his fingers in the right place.

"Yeah," House breathed.

"Anterior tibial pulse is intact and strong," he said and moved his fingers. "Posterior too." He moved his fingers again. "And the dorsalis pedis." He grinned with relief. "They're all there," he said. "All normal."

He crouched and lined his hand up with House's foot, fingers touching the ball.

"I'm going to move your foot to check for strength, okay?" he said. "Press against my hand."

"Let…Masterson…do it," House said tiredly, half-sedated from the combination of pain medicine and the sheer, blinding relief that accompanied the knowledge that his leg seemed to be all right. No nerve damage at least. That was the big worry.

"Come on," Wilson cajoled but didn't put any pressure on House's foot.

"No," House said, eyes falling shut, fighting sleep. "Hurts."

Wilson rolled his eyes and stood, glancing at House's knee again, hidden under ice now. He was itching to check it out. Anything with the leg made him skittish. But no. He'd wait for the expert. Masterson knew House's leg better than anyone except House.

He flopped down in the chair next to the bed, feeling anger, worry, and relief all at once. House forced his eyes open and glanced drunkenly at Wilson. Seeing the look on Wilson's face, he sobered up and looked at the ceiling.

"So it just started hurting?" Wilson said throwing his hand in the air. "Just like that? No warning?"

"About an hour ago," House said, still focused on the ceiling, blinking slowly. "After I woke up. First…noticed it…then."

The nurse came in with another syringe and handed it to Wilson, who laid it on the table.

"And you didn't say anything?" Wilson said, angry with House for keeping it to himself but knowing that the last thing House needed from him right now was a speech on disclosure.

"Didn't think…it was anything," House said.

"And last night?" Wilson asked. "It locked and you fell?"

"Guy…hit me…from the left…support was off…center of gravity," House mumbled, eyes closing.

"Do you remember hitting it on anything or hearing a pop?" Wilson asked.

"Would've mentioned that…wouldn't I?" he said glancing sleepily at Wilson. "No…I didn't notice anything." He closed his eyes again. After a moment he said, "Whole thing's been hurting…all day. Didn't think about it."

Wilson nodded to himself, satisfied that House really hadn't known. "I was gonna call Masterson tomorrow anyway," he said. "How's your other leg?"

"Sore," House said hoarsely. "Probably…pulled a few muscles. Not bad though."

"I'll get a massage lined up for tomorrow," Wilson said.

"The happy ending sort?" House asked faintly.

"Probably be a guy," Wilson said with a shrug, "but if you like it like that…"

House's mouth quirked slightly.

Wilson watched him anxiously, wishing Masterson would show. Anything with House's leg gave him fits. He was almost glad he was able to give House something to take his mind off of it because he knew that whatever trepidation he felt was a hundred times worse for House.

House appeared to be asleep and Wilson was about to say something to wake him up when he swallowed thickly and shifted his hand to his stomach.

"Not feeling great," he said.

"How bad?" Wilson asked.

"Bad enough…that I'm asking," House said.

"Think you can hold out?" Wilson asked. "You'll probably fall asleep if I give it to you and he'll want you awake."

"He better hurry up then," House said, swallowing again and closing his eyes.

"Yeah," Wilson said, glancing behind him at the door though the blinds were still closed and he couldn't see anything.

He was seconds away from paging Masterson again when the door opened and the devil himself, a big, burly ex-defensive lineman, appeared.

"House," Masterson barked coming into the room, "what the hell did you do to yourself this time?" He stopped in front of the bed as Wilson stood and glanced over House, eyebrows knitting, "Jesus, what _did_ you do?"

"Fuck…off, Chris," House said weakly. 'Masterson' had too many syllables for him right now.

"He got into a fight last night at Boylan's," Wilson supplied. "You said the guy punched you from the left and your knee locked and you fell, right?"

House nodded slightly.

"What the hell were you doing in a bar fight, House?" Masterson said, fully recovered from the shock of seeing his long-time patient purple and stitched together, and pulled the ice pack off of House's knee. "You know your leg—"

"Spare me…the lecture," House said as angrily as he could, feeling cornered. Masterson was a much bigger guy than he was and tended to express his aggression physically. House had more than enough experience with that.

"This was last night?" Masterson said incredulously as he looked over House's knee. "And you just noticed it now?"

House shut his eyes and turned his head away.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "I've been with him all day. It wasn't swollen or discolored earlier. He says he didn't notice it until about an hour ago."

Masterson's eyes flicked over at House, who was watching him again. "And he didn't say anything then, did he," Masterson said looking at House.

House glared at him and turned his head away again.

"No, he didn't," Wilson said, also looking at House.

"How did it present?" Masterson asked Wilson.

"He tried to move it and it hurt enough that he couldn't keep it a secret any longer," Wilson said.

"Why the pillows?" Masterson asked.

"He needed surgery to repair some internal bleeding and he hasn't kept as still as I'd like," Wilson said. "Didn't want to risk it."

"Will…you two…stop…talking about me…like…I'm not…here?" House said tiredly.

They both glared at him.

"Pillows," Masterson said to Wilson, indicating that they be moved.

House gritted his teeth, hand dug into the mattress again as Masterson held his leg and Wilson removed the pillows. He grunted sharply when Masterson eased his leg down and grabbed his ribs with a wince.

"Don't tell me you cracked a rib too," Masterson said, noticing the movement.

House looked away, hand still clutching his chest.

"Three," Wilson supplied, stacking the pillows in the chair. "Broke them."

"And the wrist?" Masterson asked.

Wilson nodded.

"Damn," Masterson whistled as he started examining House's leg, checking his pulses and blood pressure. "Who'd you get in a fight with, a linebacker?"

"Not…one of those…Bills pussies," House said doing his best to sneer.

"Like _you _ever got drafted by Buffalo," Masterson sneered back as he inflated a blood pressure cuff around House's ankle. "BP's good," he said after a moment.

"I'll get you to look at the other films later," Wilson said.

Masterson nodded. "Didn't do anything to your other leg, did you?" he asked flipping away the covers away from House's left leg.

House stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

"He said he might've pulled a few muscles," Wilson said.

"Don't do things by half, do you," Masterson said wheeling a stool over and sitting down at the foot of the bed. "You're absolutely sure your left leg's okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," House said.

Masterson glanced at Wilson quickly. "Totally sure? Nothing at all—"

"It's fine, Chris, shut the fuck up," House growled.

Wilson nodded to Masterson.

House saw the exchange. "What the hell?" he said, trying for angry but ending up slurred and desperate. "Suddenly you need…_his_ approval? He wasn't even…there."

"If you were straight with me on a more regular basis, I wouldn't need a fact checker," Masterson said. "As it is...well, you know your rep. Add to that the twenty times you've avoided telling the truth about your leg and excuse me if I don't always believe what you say."

"I'm not...screwing with you," House said. "Left leg's…fine."

Masterson glowered at him. "I'm going to get one of my people to check it tomorrow," he said. "And I'll check it again on Monday myself."

"Whatever," House muttered and looked up at the ceiling again. "Can we speed this up? I've got some…upchucking I'm just dying…to get to."

Masterson rolled his eyes. "Okay, House," he said, "I want you to press against my hand."

House yelped sharply when Masterson moved his foot perpendicular to the bed, coughing and grabbing at his chest again. Masterson gave him a minute to calm down, hand against the sole of House's foot.

"Okay?" he asked.

House glared at him.

"All right," he said, "now."

House pressed down and yelped again.

"Harder," Masterson said, increasing the counter pressure he was putting on House's foot.

"Can't," House panted.

"Yes, you can," Masterson said forcefully.

House tried again, grunting with effort and pain.

"That's as hard as you can?" Masterson asked, eyes on House.

"Yeah," House squeezed out, relieved when Masterson let his foot go, relaxing and panting shallowly.

"You're sure this happened last night?" Masterson said, glancing at Wilson. "It couldn't have happened today?"

Wilson looked at House.

"Think…I…would have…noticed…that," House said weakly.

"You sure?" Wilson asked him. "You could've done it during the transfer."

"No," House said. "It was last night…I'm sure."

"Okay," Masterson said. "Your pulses and BP are good and there doesn't appear to be any nerve damage, so I don't think you relocated it. Given the delay in presentation, I'm a little worried about a meniscal tear, but I think it's safe to say it's a soft tissue injury. Probably the ACL. How's the pain?"

"Hurts like hell," House said through his teeth.

"He had fifty of Fentanyl right after I paged you," Wilson said, "and fifty of Demerol about three hours ago."

"Still hurts," House said to Masterson. "If you're thinking…range of motion…don't. It's pointless…will only be painful…won't tell you anything…you can't get…in more detail…from an MRI."

Masterson gave House a long, searching look. "Fine," he said finally. "But it's going to be a very thorough MRI. Hope you don't get claustrophobic."

House sniffed and looked back up at the ceiling.

"Keep it iced till they come get him," Masterson said to Wilson. "Should be pretty quick. The nuke factory's not too busy this time of night." He looked at House. "And you. You're getting as much PT as you can stand tomorrow. I've spent too many years working on that leg to let it go over a bar fight."

House glared at Masterson and Masterson glared back then left to order the test.

Wilson rubbed a tired hand over his face. He hadn't expected this. And now they'd have to wait for the MRI results. He blew out a breath and looked down at House: he'd started shaking, pale-white, eyes shut, body tense, left hand in a fist, heart rate up to 105.

"Pain?" Wilson asked softly.

House didn't hear him.

"House?" Wilson said.

House made a low noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat.

"Pain bad?" Wilson repeated.

"Yeah," House whispered. "And cold."

Wilson furrowed his brow before he glanced over at House's legs: the ice pack was between his legs. Wilson cursed himself for wool gathering and gently placed the ice pack back on House's knee. He carefully tucked the blanket around his feet, pulling it up to his chest before going to the door and ordering another fifty micrograms of Fentanyl.

"Still feel sick?" Wilson asked coming back to the bed, "or were you just messing with him?"

House nodded and swallowed thickly.

Wilson fetched a pair of gloves and wordlessly administered the drug, trying not to think. Maybe he'd gone overboard with the Fentanyl. It was a drug of choice in his practice and he knew how sick it could make a patient, but he also knew how well it worked. He'd given House too much pain medication already, he knew, but House wasn't exactly faking an inflamed knee. And Wilson knew the pain was really bad when House stopped talking and paying attention to the outside world: he hadn't taken the opportunity Wilson had given him to complain about Masterson and House _hated _Masterson. Wilson had only seen him avoid a chance to gripe like this when he was too tired to care about anything after his PT sessions. A light clicked on: that was it. That was what this reminded him off. PT. In-patient PT. Shit.

He dumped the empty syringe and took the new one from a nurse who popped her head in the room to give it to him. Placing it on the table next to the bed, he sat down and watched House, who'd relaxed visibly in the interim and seemed to be asleep. The current combo of drugs was more than enough to put him down for a while and Wilson hoped he could avoid dispensing the second dose of Fentanyl he'd just received.

He sighed inwardly and looked at the wall opposite him, tired after the tumult of the last half hour. House _would_ mess up his leg again. Wilson had planned at some point during the day to ask him about it, but it was perhaps the most sensitive subject to broach with House—worse even than the Vicodin—and today had seen him stepping into personal territory much more often than he'd ever wanted to.

"Are you gonna…give that to me…or what?" House asked.

Wilson started at the sound of his voice and glanced over to see House staring dazedly at him.

"Do you need it?" Wilson asked, tired and angry and snippish. "I know you think it's in your best interest to stay as high as possible, but—"

"You don't know…a goddamn thing…about what I need," House interrupted.

"I know you need your brain cells," Wilson said. "Give it a few minutes."

House did his best to glare angrily at Wilson but Wilson kept going in and out of focus and he couldn't quite pull it off. Damn him for being right.

Wilson watched him settle down and fall asleep. He picked up the broken iPod and tried to fix it while he waited for someone to show up and take House to radiology for the third time that day, trying not to make any hypothetical projections. He had a feeling he'd end up with an ulcer before this was all over…

* * *

A/N con't

Merrie – Yup, more angst as you see. This chapter actually turned out to have lots of unplanned angst, so there's more angst to come. House v. Shrink is in the works, but it doesn't end there… :eg:

MagickalStar135 – Ah, the power of reviewing: you got me to write the Wilson-checks-out-the-bar scene when I'd planned to skip over it entirely. I think it works well and set the chapter up nicely, so thanks very much for showing an interest in seeing it! Its inclusion made the chapter better. :) Btw, Intervention has not passed on to the land of the dead fics yet. It's still very much alive—just hard to write at the moment. I've got 10,000 words written for the last few chapters, but getting the next chapter written has been difficult. Working on it, though. It's definitely not going to be left incomplete. Thanks for asking, too, btw—that gets me thinking about it and writing it more quickly than I'd otherwise do. :)

IN – Cheers! Thanks. :)

Tazallie – Thanks. I've actually been contemplating the degree to which Cameron will be involved in this fic. I hadn't planned for her to be around at all but now I'm thinking I should include her. It'll be a bit of a challenge for me since I've not written more than a few paragraphs from her perspective – her motivation for doing many of the things she did during season one felt irrational or immature to me and I just don't know how to write that – if I can't understand a logical motive, I have trouble... which isn't to say that the other characters don't do irrational and immature things – I just understand their underlying (rational) motives better. :) But I think ol' Cam will be making an appearance a little ways down the road. Thanks for mentioning her – seriously, when you guys mention things you'd like to see, I consider them and usually find that you're right, so if you'd like to see something, please let me know what it is (within reason of course ;) ).

sgr11 – Thanks for reading!

LEoL – Cheers! Resume's posted to Fox. ;P Next chap of Thursday is on its way. :)

A.H. Smith – Geh, the idea of someone –actually- yanking a catheter makes me shudder. Yipes and yee-ouch! OTOH, I can see it happening… ;)

ILuvPiratesSavvy – Cheers:)

Trialia – Thanks. :)

To the rest of youse lurkers, thankee for reading too!


	14. Follow This Stillness into Sleep

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings: **WIP, language.  
**Spoilers: **Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

A/N: Well, I said angst, so here's some angst. Hope you like it!

ILuvPiratesSavvy – Cheers!

LEoL – Umm, yes, I was kidding. I don't actually have a resume. Even if I did, SoCal would eat me alive. But I sure do appreciate the sentiment. :) And the review—well, see, it's long, so it's taking a while. I'm doin' it, though, I'm doin' it. ;)

Merrie – Thanks! I read your review and sat down then and there and wrote out a ducklings-only scene that's a good six pages long right now. Not sure how soon it'll appear in the story, but it's ready to go. Thanks for bugging me about it – I think it works well as a scene and that the fic needs it. I doubt I would've written it if I hadn't been prodded. :)

Bakura's Girl88 – Thanks! I'm glad you've enjoyed it. Apologies for the naughty language. There's a touch of it in this chapter, but I actually toned it down after reading your review and I think the chapter's better for it. So, thanks very much. :)

dontuwanakno – Here there be angst, yar. ;)

A.H. Smith – Cheers and thanks!

* * *

**Fourteen: Follow This Stillness into Sleep**

Two voices murmuring in the room. God, he hurt. Everywhere. But especially his leg. His damned leg.

"…but what _happened_?" he heard one of the voices say, as if the question had been posed earlier and not satisfactorily answered.

"I don't know many details," the other voice said.

Wilson. That one was easy to pick out.

"He's been having a rough time lately," Wilson said. "One of his exes surfaced with a sick spouse and he agreed to treat the guy."

"Brutal," the other voice said. A bass. Masterson. That bass voice had yelled at him more times than he could remember.

"Yeah," Wilson agreed.

"Was this…what was her name…starts with an 'S'…"

"Yeah," Wilson said. "Stacy."

"Shit."

"I know."

"Asked him to treat her husband?"

Silence. House inserted a nod from Wilson.

"That's really low," Masterson said. "What happened? Guy get better?"

"Well, it's House," Wilson said as though the point was obvious. "Of course he got better."

"So…he cured the guy and then got himself beaten up?" Masterson asked. "Not by the guy I hope."

"No, no," Wilson said. "Guy's got Acute Intermittent Porphyria."

Masterson made a surprised noise. "That's not something you hear every day. 'Specially in a guy."

"It was a difficult case," Wilson said. "But no, it wasn't the guy. He's kind of a shrimp, anyway. But the problem is, the guy needs to stay here for a while for treatment and observation—and you know Stacy used to work here—"

"All too well," Masterson said.

"So Cuddy offered her some consulting work while her husband's in the hospital," Wilson said.

"What the hell would she do that for?" Masterson asked.

"You know Stacy," Wilson said. "She's just like House: can't sit still for a second. I'm sure Cuddy knew she'd be breathing down her neck the whole time if she wasn't occupied."

"You're probably right there," Masterson said. He cursed. "That's really hard. No wonder… But who'd fight him?"

"He picked a fight with a trucker," Wilson said. "I don't know how he got the guy to beat him up so badly, but I don't have to try too hard to imagine it."

"Good point," Masterson said.

House heard a pager go off.

"I've gotta go," Masterson said. "I'll come by tomorrow to check on him and send someone to plaster his wrist. I want to get another look at his ribs and check the range of motion on his knee—and check the other leg too just to be safe—but overall, he's looking good right now. You'll let him know about the ACL?"

House inserted another nod from Wilson.

ACL? Shit. But he didn't think it was too bad based on Masterson's tone. And if he'd torn it, he would've known about it much sooner. So probably nothing. Nonetheless, he felt a little sick.

"Shitty," Masterson said in a reflective tone. "Really shitty."

House heard the door slide shut and Wilson expel a long breath, then the floppy, unmistakable noise of films being taken off the display board and put away.

He waited until he heard Wilson sigh and sit down, the familiar sound of a journal being opened and Wilson shifting in his chair, then opened his eyes and glanced over at him.

He'd seen a lot of Wilson all day but he hadn't really _looked _at the younger man. Wilson looked like crap…tired…like a worn-down rock in a river bed. House was too befuddled from pain and medication to do anything else with that, but he'd tell him to go home and get some sleep if he thought for a second Wilson might listen to him. Wilson wasn't going anywhere, he knew, no matter how much he picked on him. Kind of like herpes with its unpredictable outbreaks that inevitably interfered with one's plans.

Wilson glanced up and caught House looking at him.

"Hey," Wilson said with a smile. "How long have you been awake?"

"Not long enough," House said hoarsely.

"It's good news," Wilson said putting the journal down. "The MRI revealed a grade one sprain of the ACL. Masterson wants you to stay off it entirely for at least two weeks, but no surgery and no real rehab. You should be back to normal in about a month if you do the exercises he's going to give you. And you _will_ be doing the exercises. You may come out of it better than normal, since your knee showed signs of wear and tear that should've been caught and, since we did catch them early, can be fixed by rest and exercise, provided you actually do what someone tells you for once."

House smiled tiredly at him, still sleepy and a little buzzed. Good news.

"Anything else you're not telling me?" Wilson asked.

House licked his lips, mouth dry. "My back's sore from lying down all day," he said, "and I _really_ need to take a dump but I can't." He shrugged. "Trivial matters."

Wilson nodded, understanding. He knew what very few people knew about House's pill habits: that he popped laxatives and fiber supplements about as often as he popped Vicodin. Wilson only knew this because he'd slept on House's couch often enough to have a bead on his friend's usually under-stocked medicine cabinet. But House had never mentioned it before; it hadn't come up once in five years. Was that significant? Maybe with the scare with his leg, the consequences of his actions were starting to register with him…

"I don't want any of that chalky crap though," House said, interrupting Wilson's thoughts. "Phillips makes chocolate chews. Kind of like stale Tootsie Rolls mixed with artificial sweetener. But they aren't bad. Get some of those."

"I've seen those," Wilson said nodding. "How's the knee?"

"Not too bad," House said, glancing at the blanket that covered his leg. "Numb."

"Lidocaine," Wilson said. "Masterson aspirated it and wrapped it up. He's going to run as many tests as six mLs will allow. It should feel more stable now."

"It does," House said, still appraising it. It felt tight and secure. He had an urge to flex it, but that was never a good idea with his leg.

"You're making him crazy," Wilson said. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he cared."

House snorted and winced. He'd forgotten about his ribs.

Wilson let the wince go. He was tired of asking House the same questions and getting his head bitten off every time.

"You really didn't know?" he asked, trying not to sound too skeptical.

"I suspected," House admitted.

"Should've said something," Wilson said. "Next time—because I know there will be a next time—say something. You're sure about the left one…?"

"Yeah," House said, moving his left leg under the blanket. "It's just sore. Really. That's all."

Wilson nodded with a small shrug. "I believe you, but he won't."

House grumbled about how much of a bastard Masterson was and tried vainly to stretch.

"Up," he said after he couldn't find anything approaching a comfortable position.

"Are you sure you should—"

"I'm feeling sociable," House said. "Up."

Wilson studied him for a moment, then went to the foot of the bed and lifted up the covers, hand on House's foot.

"Yes, yes," House said with annoyance, "I can feel it. Either start massaging or get back up here and let me sit up."

Wilson rolled his eyes and did as he was told.

House's face contorted as Wilson moved the bed. He knew broken ribs were no picnic, but actually experiencing it… He had no idea what time it was—it felt late to him—but his body was telling him he had about half an hour to medicate it or it would make him start screaming.

Wilson poured him a glass of water and sat down again, picking the journal up.

"You gonna hang out here all night?" House asked between sips.

"This is the most happenin' place in town," Wilson quipped, not looking up from the journal.

"That's sad," House said. "Really, really sad." He drank the rest of the water and put it down, wiping his mouth carelessly with his hand. "What time is it?"

Wilson glanced at his watch. "Nearly ten o'clock."

"That can't be right," House said. "I feel like I've been out for hours."

"Yeah," Wilson said with a snort. "Most people find it difficult to sleep through an MRI."

"Mommy always told me I was special," House said.

"Lucky you conked out," Wilson said. "That was the longest MRI I've ever had to sit through."

"You probably could've stood if you'd wanted," House said. "Maybe stretched out on the floor. Masterson's not that much of an ogre."

"Hang on," Wilson said with mock confusion. "Did you just complement him?"

"Yes," House said sarcastically. "Welcome to the twilight zone. Please keep your hands and feet inside the cart at all times."

"I'm going to test you for dementia next," Wilson muttered.

House glared at him. "Only ten o'clock?"

"Not even ten o'clock yet," Wilson said.

"This is the longest damn day…" House griped.

Wilson nodded, yawning.

House watched him, noting how tired he looked.

"You should let a sitter take over," he said lamely, uncomfortable making a suggestion that might actually make someone else more comfortable. "Go home," he mumbled, "see your wife."

"I saw her earlier," Wilson said, casually brushing House's sudden concern for his well-being off. "She's fine. Probably happy to have a night without me in the house."

"How about this: I'm tired of looking at you," House said.

"So close your eyes," Wilson said. "Sleeping patients are the best patients."

"I beg to differ," House said. "Comatose patients are the best patients."

"Uh, no," Wilson said. "Not if you like your patients to live."

"They are one hundred percent less likely to lie, though," House said. "What's not to like?"

"The increased likelihood of dying," Wilson said casually turning the page. "Really screws with your stats."

House rolled his eyes, but it was obvious Wilson wasn't going anywhere. This idiotic suicide watch. If they'd only let him see the head-shrinker earlier…

"So you're in on this shrink deal?" House asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Wilson did his best to look nonplussed, not even glancing up from the journal, but he was amazed that House was bringing the subject up. He even sounded serious about it. Twilight zone indeed.

"Sort of," Wilson answered. "I haven't talked to her and I don't plan to talk to her. Not about you, anyway."

"Probably wouldn't kill you to sneak some marriage counseling out of her," House said.

When Wilson didn't take the bait, he sighed long-sufferingly. "I really don't see the point of bringing her in. Everything will heal and I'll be fine."

"What about Stacy?" Wilson asked levelly, turning the page again.

"What about her?" House echoed, automatically tensing. "What's-his-name will get better and they'll go back to their happy little lives." If he hadn't been so angry at Wilson for bringing her up, he'd have been proud of himself for saying it without sounding bitter.

"What if that doesn't happen?" Wilson challenged, eyes still on the page, sensing that this wasn't the time to look up.

"Why wouldn't it?" House said, annoyed that Wilson wasn't making eye contact. "Her life isn't here anymore. He seems to have some sort of a life too and it obviously isn't here either. All these friends of theirs sending cards and visiting—why would anyone give that up? Just to get my goat? Even I'm not narcissistic enough to believe that."

"You don't know anything about her life now," Wilson said. "What if she doesn't like Short Hills? She liked it here. She had a life here."

"Yeah, and once upon a time I wasn't crippled for life," House said evenly, not sounding bitter because, to his surprise, he didn't feel bitter. He felt something edging on anger, but he was still a little too drugged to really feel anything at all. "What do you know about her life anyway? Ditch monster trucks all you want, but you're not taking her side. None of this devil's advocate bullshit."

"I'm just saying that she might still be here when you're ready to come back," Wilson said cautiously. He finally looked up, fixing a steady gaze on House. "Do you really think you could face that?"

"What choice do I have?" House said, meeting Wilson's gaze, refusing to back down. "No amount of talking about it is going to change anything—whether she's still here, whether I'm 'ready' to see her, any of it. What will happen will happen. I don't need a shrink to tell me that. I don't need anyone to tell me that. I'm pretty damn well schooled in taking what's dished out to me."

"You can't deny that you've got some issues, though," Wilson said matter-of-factly. It was eerie, how detached House seemed. Wilson took his cues from House and felt detached himself.

"Of course I do," House said. "Who doesn't? It's unhealthy _not_ to have a few issues."

"That may be true," Wilson said, "but it's also unhealthy to ignore every chance to air those issues out a little." He gestured to House's battered body. "Look at you. That's what happens when you keep it all in. You go ape shit and nearly wreck your leg." He stopped himself, checked some of the things he wanted to say, feeling anger burn in his chest. "Deny it all you want," he said coolly, "but what you did isn't healthy."

"What the hell was I supposed to do?" House growled, just short of yelling. "You don't—" he stopped; he couldn't say it. He let out an angry sigh and tried again. "You don't know."

"No, I don't," Wilson said automatically, feeling calmer. "You don't tell me anything."

_Dammit_, House thought._ Shouldn't have brought it up. Why did I bring it up._ Why? _Now he won't stop until he's satisfied. Shit._ Shit.

"It's none of your business," House said lowly.

"It is when you try to off yourself over it," Wilson said, trying not to let the intense mix of emotions he'd kept in all day spill over.

"Goddammit, I didn't try to…" House said looking away. "You would've done the same."

"I would've done the same if…?" Wilson asked.

Silence. House's jaw clenched and unclenched, the muscle working, deep blue bruise superimposed on pale skin.

"If you— if she— if— shit," House said, angry at himself for saying anything in the first place.

"If she what?" Wilson coaxed. "What'd she do?"

"She didn't _do _anything," House ground out.

_Oh, that's right, you two never _did _anything_, Wilson thought bitterly. _It was always words_.

"She said something to you," Wilson said flatly. "What did she say?"

House ground his teeth again and looked away.

_That's it_, Wilson realized. He'd had an inkling that something more had happened between House and Stacy. It wasn't just Cuddy's job offer that drove him to it. But Wilson knew he'd have to be careful right now. It was like excising a tumor: it required precision, patience, thoroughness, and a steady hand. The only problem was, he wasn't the guy who removed the tumors—that was the surgeon's job. All he did was find them, diagnose them, and oversee the treatment. But the metaphor didn't really fit. No metaphor could. This was so much more difficult than anything he encountered at work or anything that could be captured with words. This was years of knowing someone, years of experiences, years of not interfering. Years of not pushing too hard. He'd have to be very, very careful.

"Shrink's gonna ask you the same question," he said evenly. Just making a point, that's all, his voice tried to convey. It's not personal; just making a point.

House looked over at him, a sneer on his face. "So who would I rather tell, is that it? You or her?" he said. "I'm _fine_."

"Don't think she'll accept that answer," Wilson said, throwing his hands up, his posture saying 'that's the way it is, sorry, not my doing'. "You're holding all the cards here. It's up to you to end the babysitting."

Silence. He'd, dammit, he'd let himself get involved in this. Let Wilson pull him in. But if he said nothing, if he tried a dodge or said he needed more meds—Wilson wouldn't buy it, even if it was true. And it was true: he _did _need more meds, but that wouldn't solve anything. It would still be there every time Wilson looked at him, hanging between them. The question: what did she say? Wilson would never leave him alone until he came clean.

Goddammit. He'd really fucked this one up. But the truth was—and it wasn't a truth he'd ever acknowledge—the truth was that he didn't want to carry it around with him, fixed forever in his damned eidetic memory, though who could forget that, total recall or not. _I can't be with you_. _I'm not over you…you were the one…always will be…but I can't be with you_. _With you I was lonely…with him, there's room_.

Wilson waited patiently, watching House think about it. House started staring blankly at the wall in front of him, left hand toying nervously with the corner of the sheet.

"She said she's not over me," he said softly. "She said that…I was the one. Capital O One as in _the_ one." He threw the sheet down and looked over at Wilson. "What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Wouldn't that drive anyone nuts? Just a little? Jesus Christ, you'd be nuts _not_ to be bothered by that."

Wilson said nothing, seeing the anger and desperation in House's eyes.

"And now you think she wants to stay here," House said evenly. "For what? Just to screw with me? What's that? Well, you can tell her she won the mindfuck contest a long time ago."

"So…what?" Wilson said as calmly as he could. "You try to kill yourself? That's your answer?"

"I did _not_ try to—why am I even saying that, no use trying to convince you," House said. "I was upset. I had every right to be upset. I _have _every right to be upset right now and yet I'm not. I'm fine. I think I'm actually doing pretty damn well all things considered. Everything will heal and everything will go back to normal."

"'Normal' wasn't exactly great for you," Wilson said, leaning forward in the chair, elbows on his thighs, head rested on his clasped hands.

"It was fine," House said. "What I had— it was enough. I was happy."

"You don't really believe that, do you?" Wilson said. "I've never seen you so miserable…ever!"

"I do the best I can," House said through his teeth. "I don't have to satisfy anyone but myself."

"And that's your problem," Wilson said. "No one but yourself to think about."

House sniffed a sad laugh to himself. "That's what she said. That I didn't have room for her in my life. That she was lonely…" he paused on the phrase, considering it, turning it over, feeling it sting again. "I made her lonely. That with him…she's— there's— I mean, he's a guidance counselor, come on. Did your guidance counselor know his ass from his elbow? Mine sure didn't."

He glanced over at Wilson quickly, too absorbed in what he was saying to register anything about him, then back at the wall, staring blankly.

"It's a 9 to 5. Not even that. Of course he has time for her. And I can't—" he cut himself off, face contorting for a second, then back to normal. "She's…she seems happy. _They _seem happy. I know I should…let them be. And I was. Wasn't I? I fixed the guy, he'll probably be fine, live a long, full, happy life. And I was okay with it. I was letting it go."

He paused. He was starting to forget Wilson was there at all.

"At the end…toward the end when we had it, knew what it was—before the trigger—that moment when you just _know _you've got it right this time—it felt so normal. So usual. It felt okay. Like any other case." He sighed to himself. "Maybe if it had been just another case he'd have died because she wouldn't have been there to…_push_ like she always does…and maybe not. Christ," he said with a short laugh, "what do I know. I'm doomed to relive this, this scenario, this choice that I never had in the first place. Forget hell. Who needs hell when there's this. But," he drew his left leg up and rested his arm on it, head going to his hand, wincing at how it hurt his ribs, "God, _why_ did she have to say those things? Was it so hard to just walk away, let it go? I was never gonna see her again. And I was okay with that. I was getting there—getting to be okay with it. Because I saw them—together—and they're so good and I told her that, I fucking told her that, and she comes to me with this? Out of nowhere? 'You were it, but you can't ever be it again. I'm taking my consolation prize and going home?'"

He pinched his nose, fingers bunching skin and pulling at the stitches in his forehead.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe she's sticking around just to screw with me. So what do I do? What do I do?" He looked over at Wilson, hands spread out in a gesture of defeat. "Don't tell me that I don't do what I did. God knows I figured that one out the hard way." He held up his wrist and gestured to his face. "You think I like this? That I wanted this? That I planned this? That I wanted any part of it at all? _She_ came to _me_."

"I told her to," Wilson said hollowly.

"I know," House said.

Wilson looked up at him, mouth agape, blank deer-in-the-headlights look on his face.

"Don't look so shocked," House said dismissively. "It was obvious. First your little dinner date—important enough to pass up Gravedigger—and then she suddenly appears expecting help? Subtlety's not your strongest suit."

Wilson looked down again, running his fingers through his hair. "For what it's worth…" he said, "I'm sorry."

House shook his head. "What do you have to be sorry for?" he said. "She would've found me anyway. I haven't exactly been hiding from her."

"Yeah, well…" Wilson said trailing off. He tented his hands over his nose. "If I'd known…I never would've…"

"Of course not," House said. "You're not a sadistic spawn of Satan."

They sat silently for a few minutes, each thinking quietly to himself.

"What about Cameron?" Wilson asked after a while, hoping to remind House that he did have other options.

"What about her?" House said.

"You know," Wilson said with a suggestive grin. "She's been extra concerned about you lately. You should've seen some of the looks she was giving you when your back was turned. I mean, I know you don't like that and I know what you told her, but I don't think she was listening. You seem to attract stubbornness."

"No," House said with a shake of his head. "Not happening."

"Look, just because she's a little naïve doesn't mean that—"

"No," House said softly. "That's not it."

Wilson stared at him. "What is it, then?" he asked blankly. "Can't be the age thing—I mean, come on—"

"Not that," House said, eyes fixed on the blanket.

"Shit," Wilson said, noticing House's posture, "something changed. Something big. What was it?"

House sighed. "She had something to say too."

"When was this?" Wilson asked.

"Thursday," House said.

"Damn," Wilson said with a sympathetic wince, "double whammy."

"You're assuming it's bad," House said. "She could've asked me to marry her for all you know."

Wilson shrugged lightly. "You'd probably take that badly. And besides, you've got this forlorn look on your face that makes you seem almost human. You're at 'lost dog' right now, but if you just droop a little more I think you'd make a convincing half-human, half-chimp."

"Thank you, yes, that helps so much," House sneered. "Last guy who called me a lower primate got poop flung at him. Don't think you're safe just cause I'm stopped up right now."

Wilson chuckled, then paused for a few seconds.

"So this was Thursday," he said.

"Yeah," House said. "Isn't that some kind of day of atonement for you people?"

"Your anti-Semitic really doesn't sell," Wilson said. "You've been to one too many Seders at my house."

"I walked out of the only one you invited me to," House point out.

"Yeah, she never forgave me for that," Wilson said.

"Was this number one or number two?" House asked. "They're starting to blend together. Seems like the time frame was number one, but number two was more traditional. Wasn't number one a gentile, too?"

Wilson shrugged. "She was open to new things," he said. "Yeah, it was her."

"Good thing you got all that experimentation out of your system in your twenties," House said. "Yahweh only knows what kind of fiendish things you'd be up to now if you hadn't." He shook his head. "Marrying a gentile—you should be ashamed, nice Jewish boy like yourself. You could be a doctor. But a gentile, oh my. We're an unclean lot, all of us, what with the foreskin and the pork and supporting the Arabs economically. Thank God you didn't do it twice."

House fixed a sardonic look on him and Wilson gave him the 'shut up' glare.

"So," Wilson said breezily as if he were asking about the latest piece of gossip, "what'd she say?"

House took as deep a breath as he could and sighed. "She said that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I _am_ capable of loving someone, just not her," House said. "Which, in her mind, is a good thing."

"Wow," Wilson said. "She actually said that?"

"Not in those words, but yes," House said. "Either that or she was talking to her invisible friend again and the invisible friend just happened to be standing directly in my eye line."

"That's, umm," Wilson scratched his head, "wow. She actually…? Shit. Should've banged her when you had the chance."

"Yes, that really would've solved everything, wouldn't it?" House said sarcastically. "Even if your patented panty-peeler had worked…"

"It works when you put the right kind of effort into it," Wilson said. "Great for a short-term romp with a co-worker, but I guess you were thinking more long-term."

"I wasn't thinking anything," House said. "That was the problem. If I'd been thinking in the first place, I wouldn't have agreed to it at all."

"Might've gone well if you'd made her agree to do it on your terms," Wilson said.

"I didn't have any terms," House said.

"You wanted her back, though," Wilson said.

"She's a good doctor," House dodged.

"Everyone who applied for that position was a good doctor," Wilson said. "She was special. She _is_ special."

"Yes," House said dully as if repeating a mantra, "and I wanted her back because I want to screw her raw on the conference room table while Foreman video tapes."

"Why Foreman?" Wilson asked, trying to keep some levity in the conversation.

"Chase can watch too, even if he was a naughty boy for a while," House said. "You know he gets off on masochism?"

Wilson shook his head, eyebrows raised in surprise and slight disgust.

"I know," House said, "I didn't want to know that either. Makes his behavior make more sense, though. So Foreman video tapes, Chase beats off in the corner…throw in a cage hanging from the ceiling with Cuddy in it—I'm thinking barely-there black leather—and we've got a show. I'll sell tickets. With all the money I'd make, I could have a wing named after me. Maybe even the whole hospital."

"The Gregory House 'Get the Hell Out of Here, You're Wasting My Time' Memorial Hospital," Wilson said. "Has a nice ring."

"Take out the 'memorial' part—I'm not dead yet—and start ordering letterhead," House said.

"Somewhere a jumbo-sized billionaire is crying," Wilson said.

"I heard he bought an island in Polynesia," House said. "Think of all the revenge money he has left over after that."

"One day you'll wake up next to a horse's head," Wilson said.

"I dunno," House said, "me and him in open water, a small boat…I think I can take him. If he doesn't tip us over first."

Wilson huffed an appropriate laugh and smiled.

House smiled back in his own miniscule way.

Wilson's smile slowly faded to half-serious.

"So you think she believes what she said?" he asked.

"Cameron?" House asked. "I don't know. She had this sacrificial look on her face like she'd been thinking about it for a long time, but she also seemed startled. Like if she'd found me ten minutes later, she would've thrown herself at me all hugs and kisses." He paused, looking intently at the blanket. "But…no…I don't know. You're the Love Doctor here, not me."

"Sounds like she was going for reverse psychology," Wilson said. "I tell you you can't possibly love me and suddenly that's all you want to do." He paused, considering. "Did it work?"

"Does it look like it worked?" House said.

"It did something," Wilson said, "or it wouldn't be bothering you."

House shrugged. "You brought her up."

"And if you hadn't wanted to talk about her, you would've found some way of deflecting me," Wilson said. "Speaking of," he said and looked at his watch. "Oh my God, it's almost eleven."

"I know," House said with a wry smile. "Nearly two hours overdue."

"Shit," Wilson said. "I— shit. Sorry. How is it?"

"Not that great," House said. He rubbed his hand across the part of his face that ached the least. "I can't give you a number, though. I can't— my brain is mush. I don't want to—think about it or talk— Just do what you think is best."

Wilson nodded and went to the door, sticking his head out.

House leaned back against the bed, exhausted. Tension he didn't realize he'd had in him left, muscles relaxing as he let gravity take over. A full hour's worth of pain that he hadn't been feeling flooded in all at once.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on feeling it. Some of it was good—the satisfying tired soreness of having fought a battle—but the rest was real, unavoidable raw pain. Should've had more meds over an hour ago. He hitched in shallow, unsteady breaths until he felt the bed reclining under him and the familiar muscular burn of slow-pushed narcotics.

Ten minutes later, he was buzzed into orbit. He heard Wilson settling and the noise of a vacuum tube winking out, electrons scattering across its surface under the beep of the heart monitor, then the orange-red of his eyelids went black at the click of the light above the bed.

For a long time after that, he was somewhere between sleeping and waking: aware but unable to think. It was nice. Peaceful. A gentle, pervading night-quiet. All around him, everyone slept.


	15. Cat and Mouse

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings: **WIP, language.  
**Spoilers: **Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **The shrink cometh. I don't, however, think this was quite what you guys had in mind… :eg:

Midnight Dove – Thanks! Glad you like that line about the guidance counselor. Not to disparage actual guidance counselors—I'm sure it's a very difficult job in reality—but could the writers have picked a wussier job for Mark? Maybe shoe salesman, but even if he'd been a shoe salesman House could've gotten a deal on Nikes from him or something… Anyway, glad you liked it. :)

MagickalStar135 – Thanks for the compliments! The other fics are very much alive and well. Say hi to Rudy for me. ;)

Merrie – Thanks as always. I thought you'd like the bit about Cameron. :) Cameron and—dare I say?—the evil Stacy will be involved later. But wait. I've said too much.

Coccinella – Thanks:) The ducks are getting a big piece of an upcoming chapter all to themselves. Definitely gonna be some ducks in the hiz-ouse.

IN – Thanks! The shrink…well, you'll see. I suppose I should mention the difference between a psychiatrist and a therapist—one listens just long enough to know whether to give you drugs while the other is paid by the hour to listen to an hour's worth of stuff. Two very different functions (imo at least). One would ask about Wilson; one wouldn't. Besides, House is only agreeing to do this because he's sick of being on a suicide watch. This is not, however, the end of psychological/psychiatric involvement in this fic. :g:

LEoL – Congrats on moving. :) The secret to writing this fic is…drumroll…meth. Lots and lots of meth. Throw in a pinch of black tar heroin and there you have it. ;)

ILuvPiratesSavvy – Thanks!

eternalgorithm – Thanks also!

**New A/N:** Small revision to this chapter: Ariadne brought up a very, very good point for the shrink scene that should've been there in the first place, so I've added it. Thanks very much for catching it, Ariadne! You're totally right—it's perhaps the biggest question of all. As to who's the cat and who's the mouse...well, I wanted to leave that up in the air and the reviews seem to suggest the ambiguity worked. ;)

**Newer A/N:** Re: House's AST as Rese pointed out in a review. Here's what I'm going on:

From an awesome and extremely thorough article on liver failure that I've been using as a guide: "In instances of acetaminophen toxicity (especially alcohol-enhanced), the AST level may be well over 10,000 U/L." Source: www dot emedicine dot com slash med slash topic990 dot htm.

And then this from a short info-centric page on the AST test: "Striking elevations of AST (400-4000 units/L) are found in almost all forms of acute hepatic necrosis, such as viral hepatitis and carbon tetrachloride poisoning. In alcoholics, even moderate doses of the analgesic acetaminophen have caused extreme elevations (1,960-29,700 units/L). Moderate rises of AST are seen in jaundice, cirrhosis, and metastatic carcinoma. Approximately 80 of patients with infectious mononucleosis show elevations in the range of 100-600 units/L." Source: www dot healthatoz dot com slash healthatoz slash Atoz slash ency slash aspartateaminotransferasetest dot jsp.

None of these sites say whether an AST that high caused by a combination of alcohol and acetaminophen would mean that the patient was unconscious or not, though, and I'm so far from being anything that resembles a medical professional that I've gotta say that I just don't know. (Btw, for reference, Vicodin Hydrocodone bitartrate plus acetaminophen in ratios of 2.5 mg/500mg to 10 mg/750 mg. If House is taking 80 mgs per day as "Detox" suggested, he's probably at or near overdosing on acetaminophen every day too, where the max daily dose of acet. is 4 grams (4000 mgs). Add in a bunch of booze and it gets ugly I imagine.)

Here's my reasoning with regard to story: Cuddy's quoting a number from the day before mainly to scare House and get him to take the situation seriously. If, umm, that number means he'd be unconscious, let's say that it was taken right after he was brought in when he still had a ton of acetaminophen and alcohol in his system, and that it's dropped significantly since then. It seems from the second article I quoted that the AST has a very dramatic range – a normal AST according to article two is 3-45 U/L and if it can go up to 29,700 U/L…well, that's pretty dramatic. ;)

Thanks for bringing that up, Rese.

This is cool. You guys are really keeping me on my toes. Awesome of you:)

* * *

**Fifteen: Cat and Mouse**

Cuddy stuck her head into the room around 6 a.m. House and Wilson were both fast asleep, just like she'd found them yesterday afternoon, except that House's bed was lower than it usually was and his right leg was propped up.

Fear stabbed her at the sight. What had happened? She supposed it wasn't too bad or Wilson would've called her…but still, anything with his leg…

They were both asleep, though, and she knew whatever it was, it would be on House's chart, so she turned to leave.

She was tip-toeing out of the room when Wilson snorted awake. He blinked sleepily for a second before he recognized her and then put his index finger to his lips and motioned for her to go outside while he quietly extracted himself from the chair he'd been sleeping in to follow her.

Wilson carefully rolled the door shut and walked down the hall with her to a more secluded area.

"What happened?" she demanded anxiously.

"Sprained his ACL," he answered. "It's not bad," he said quickly. "Grade one. Masterson was on call last night and he did a full work-up. He says House'll be fine in a month."

Cuddy breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God," she said.

"He had a really bad night, though," Wilson said, rubbing his face with a tired hand. "Barely slept. He was in a lot of pain."

Cuddy frowned sympathetically. "Not from his knee?"

"Ribs," Wilson supplied. "But yes, the knee, at first. In general, though, everything. It was rough."

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"I had to give him more meds than we'd discussed," he admitted. "It's all on his chart."

Cuddy nodded. "That's fine," she said. "You do what you have to do. When did he sprain his ACL?"

"During the fight he says," Wilson said with a shrug. "He said he didn't notice it at the time but thought something might be wrong yesterday. When it didn't bother him for most of the day…" Wilson threw his hands up, unable to provide an answer himself, "he said he forgot about it."

"How'd you get it out of him?" she asked curiously.

Wilson sniffed a laugh at the thought of getting anything out of House.

"I can't take credit for it," he said. "He honestly didn't know anything was wrong until yesterday evening when it started hurting. It looked fine to me earlier, too." He paused, seeing a question form in her eyes. "Masterson wasn't concerned about the delayed presentation in light of the other trauma."

"Bet he was thrilled," Cuddy said with a roll of her eyes.

"Oh yeah," Wilson replied with a sleepy grin. "PT boot camp starts this afternoon. Masterson's going to do it himself. I'm expecting gym shorts and a whistle. For a guy who was never in the army, he's got the drill sergeant shtick down."

Cuddy cringed slightly, recalling how abysmal the early days of PT were for House. This time it wouldn't be nearly as bad—there wasn't much that could trump learning to walk again on a leg missing a third of its total muscle mass and having extensive nerve damage—but broken ribs would make it ten times worse than it would normally be. She sighed inwardly. He was always getting into trouble…

Wilson's voice brought her out of her reverie. "It's another blessing in disguise, though," he said. "The MRI revealed some joint damage—the wear on his knee would be normal if he was seventy or eighty." He blew out a frustrated breath, "He's been skipping PT again. Masterson was amazed he didn't have a meniscal tear, especially with the late presentation, but the MRI and labs were clean. As long as he stays off of it for a while and gets enough PT, he should come out of it stronger."

"He did us a lot of favors, didn't he?" she said wryly.

Wilson snorted. "Don't tell _him_ that." A yawn escaped him and he gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry," he said. "He didn't go down until three-thirty."

"We're still on for nine o'clock," Cuddy said.

Wilson nodded, yawning again, "I know, I know. I just hope he'll sleep for a little while longer." He leaned against the wall. "He had a lot to say last night. About…everything."

Cuddy raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"After his knee," Wilson explained. "I think it scared him. Or maybe it was the Fentanyl, I don't know. He hasn't seemed so sane and, for lack of a better phrase, _with it_, in a long time. He was candid." Wilson stood up straight again, talking with his hands, almost impassioned, "Actually candid. Sincere, too. It was a little creepy. And I know he still needs evaluation—I don't doubt that at all: I'm probably the last person who can be objective in this situation—but for what it's worth, I think he made an honest mistake and that that was it. I really don't think it was intentional." He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, "But that's just what I've seen."

"Good," Cuddy said, nodding, "good." She stopped herself and smiled, "Good—what am I saying—_great_. It's great that he's thinking about it and talking about it. It's nearly unbelievable."

Wilson shrugged with a smile, "I'm having trouble believing it wasn't just a dream myself."

"He's scheduled for labs at seven," she said glancing at her watch. "I'll push them back to eight."

Wilson nodded his approval.

"How's the withdrawal?" she asked.

"I was going to start tapering the Vistaril at midnight, but he couldn't get to sleep," Wilson said. "He didn't say anything but I think it was bothering him. I was thinking I'd cut the dosage at eight…"

"Sounds good," she said. "We do want him awake."

"Yes, we do," Wilson said with a smile.

"When is he due for another dose of pain meds?" Cuddy asked.

"He had some at three," Wilson said. "He's been on a four hour schedule, but I'm hoping he'll sleep until eight. Stretch the dose."

Cuddy nodded. "Obviously it depends on how he feels when he wakes up, but try to give it P.O. today. If not this morning, definitely this afternoon."

Wilson nodded quickly. "Absolutely. He should feel better today. PT'll be rough but he'll probably sleep for a while afterward and that should help."

Cuddy nodded, "Good, good," she said. "I'll stop by once he's awake. I want to talk to him about his treatment plan."

"Sure you want to do that before he sees Appadurai?" Wilson asked.

Cuddy shrugged. "Wouldn't hurt him to express his anger if he's angry."

"Whatever you say," Wilson said, happy that it wasn't his call. He stood up straight again and started down the hall toward House's room. "I'm going to go sit with him," he said. "I'll page you when he's up."

She followed until they were outside House's room. Wilson yawned again into his fist.

"Are you ever going to sleep?" she asked with a short laugh.

He shrugged. "I'm good."

She gave him a doubtful look.

"Really," he said, "I'm fine. I'll get a nap in later."

She appraised him quickly, still doubtful. "He's not going anywhere," she said. "Won't hurt you or him to take a break."

"I know," he said. He smiled to reassure her. "I will. Don't worry."

"Okay," she said and smiled.

Wilson quietly slipped back into the room as Cuddy went to the nurse's station to change the time for House's labs.

* * *

Chase yawned sleepily, adding coffee grounds to the filter and mentally kicking Foreman for not leaving any fresh coffee for him.

Foreman's notes on Mark from yesterday were positive in general. He'd left a note about possible nerve damage and partial numbness that he wanted Chase to check, but baring any real change in Mark's labs or another attack, Chase had the day free.

Free except for the fact that he was stuck at work for the next twenty-four hours.

Which was to say, pretty much free. Aside from a glance at the morning labs and a quick visit to the patient after breakfast, he could go home if he wanted to. Except that he knew House would somehow find out and hold it against him and he'd be busted back down to galley slave before he could blink and he was thoroughly, _thoroughly_ sick of scut work.

Grinding his teeth angrily, Chase sat down and pulled the crossword out of the Sunday paper while the coffee percolated.

* * *

House scraped at the bottom of his third cup of jello; he was getting good at using a spoon with his left hand. He'd managed the nasty breakfast gruel too without spilling any on his gown: he and Wilson had had a heated 'discussion' about whether House should have a napkin in his lap and House had won: no napkin. But Wilson had fallen into a doze in his chair while House was eating and now House couldn't gloat properly. Annoyed, House picked up the empty cup and lobbed it at him. It clipped him on the ear and he started into wakefulness.

"Go home," House said when Wilson glared at him.

"And miss being hit in the head with jello cups?" Wilson said. "No way."

"You look like Night of the Living Dead," House griped.

"You look like you picked a fight with Tarzan," Wilson snipped back.

"Do I look like I scored with Jane?" House said. "Cause I did. I scored big time."

"Drink your juice," Wilson said.

House threw another empty cup at him and Wilson dodged it just as the door opened.

"Hey, hey," Cuddy said, "no throwing things. This is a hospital, not an elementary school."

"You're next," House said and grabbed the last empty cup threateningly.

Knowing Cuddy wanted to speak to House alone, Wilson stood and mumbled something about coffee. He slid the door closed behind him.

Cuddy settled into the chair Wilson had vacated and picked up the two cups House had thrown, putting them on the bedside table.

"Did Barbra Walters tell you he got me to cry on camera?" House sneered, putting the cup down. "If I didn't remember it all in such clear, gut-wrenching, gag-inducing detail I'd say you got him to slip me some sodium pentathol."

Cuddy ignored him. "I came to talk to you about your treatment plan."

"Aww, really? And here I was thinking you were visiting because you cared," he said and wiped his eye. "Excuse me if I get a little teary-eyed."

"We're going to start you on Neurontin tomorrow," Cuddy said. "Six-hundred milligrams with a daily increase of three-hundred until we find a level that works for you."

"Doesn't that sound like fun?" House said. "Or you know what? You could give me something that actually _works_—like, I don't know, the med I was already taking—instead of an anti-convulsant that's got more unproven off-label usages than I have hair on my ass. Neurontin's what idiots give patients when they don't know what's wrong with them and just want the patient to shut up. It's a very dangerous placebo—great if you're seizing—but useless otherwise."

"I know you've tried it in the past," she said calmly. "But you know figuring out the right dose takes a while and—"

"That's true of almost every medication," House interrupted, not wanting to listen to her reasoning. "I can't wait a week or two to get dosing worked out."

"You'll still have narcotics in your system," she said, "they'll boost the potency."

"And lessen the effects of narcotics, leaving me screaming and useless while you try to 'get it right'," he sniffed. "I don't have time for that."

"What _do_ you have time for?" Cuddy said angrily. "Major organ failure? Oh, wait, you already know about that. Don't be an idiot, House. We're talking about years," she said. "_Years_."

"Years of what?" House challenged.

"Just try it," she said. "That's all I'm asking. Try it."

"I have something that works," he said. "I want to stay with that."

"Do you have any idea where your AST was yesterday?" she said through her teeth. "Even after the overdose was corrected? Try 13,000."

"No Triphasic waves," he growled, not alarmed or even surprised at the number. "I'm still subclinical."

"By how many days?" she said.

He rolled his eyes.

"Yes, we're talking days," she said. "And no, I'm not being dramatic. I've seen your labs. How long before your hands start shaking and you start forgetting things? How long before you can't write your own name anymore? You really want to wait for that?" She let out an angry breath. "How old is that EEG? Two months? Three? I'd bet you a hundred bucks they're there now but it's a bet I don't want to win."

"I'm. Fine."

"Your blood work begs to differ," she said. "I was going to wait until later to tell you, but…why not. You've got an appointment with Myers from hepatology tomorrow afternoon."

House rolled his eyes again and looked away.

"You do and you're keeping it," she said. "He's going to be as thorough as humanly possible, but I don't think you need me or him to tell you that it's acetaminophen toxicity. Your liver's lasted this long with all the crap you force into it, so it's obviously healthy—or it was—and the damage may still be reversible. Who knows. But Vicodin is out. Absolutely."

He still had a sneer on his face.

"If you want to live, that is," she added wryly.

"You're not still hung up on that, are you?" House said. "Jesus. Didn't Wilson tell you he got me to cry on his shoulder? Where's your shrink so we can clear this up?"

"She's on her way," Cuddy said and glanced at her watch. "Twenty minutes."

"Well. You'll excuse me while I freshen up," House said motioning for her to leave. "First impressions are oh-so critical."

Cuddy glared at him but got up to leave. "I'll see you later," she said. "Before lunch."

House sneered at her again. "And tell Wilson to take a nap or something," he said as she slid the door open. "He looks like Bela Lugosi in _Ed Wood_."

"Bela Lugosi died in the sixties," Cuddy pointed out, paused at the door.

"Martin Landau," House said waving his hand dismissively. "Whoever it was." He paused. "And Lugosi died in 1956. Get your facts straight before you go accusing me of memory loss."

She rolled her eyes and left.

As he'd expected, Wilson came trotting back in after a few minutes, coffee cup in hand.

"She give you the skinny?" House asked, building a fort with the empty breakfast containers on his tray.

"Yep," Wilson said. No use trying to deny it.

"Did she tell you you look like Martin Landau in _Ed Wood_?"

"Who?"

House grumbled something about Cuddy then said aloud, "Bela Lugosi."

"Oh," Wilson said. Realizing what House meant, he added sarcastically, "Thanks."

House glanced up from his fort building. "Seriously, man, looking at you is making _me_ tired," he said. "Shrink's due soon and I need a piss first, so amscray."

"I just sat down," Wilson protested.

"Both your legs work," House said. "You shouldn't have a problem getting back up."

Wilson glared at him.

House made a shooing motion with his good hand. "Skedaddle," he said. "How many ways do I have to say it?"

Wilson glared at him again but got up, coffee in hand.

"And tell them to give me a few minutes," House said. "I don't piss in public, unlike _some_ people I know."

Wilson sneered at him as he went toward the door. "That was a long time ago," he said.

"It was last month," House said rolling his eyes.

Wilson's sneer got uglier.

"Oh, yeah, just cause you didn't get caught last month, it's like it didn't happen," House said sarcastically.

"If you were better at hauling ass, I wouldn't have had to pay your fine," Wilson said.

"I paid you back," House protested, "we're squared. _I_ wasn't the repeat offender, anyway. Yeah, I saw the way that cop looked at you."

Wilson rolled his eyes and turned to go.

"Nix the lunch jello while you're out there," House added. "I want food. Actual food. Ideally the most edible item on the menu, but as long as I can taste it and chew it it's probably fine. Starving your patients may fly in onc, but I'm _hungry _and I _will_ report you."

Wilson grunted. "I'll bring you the sheet later and you can pick something."

"Oh goody," House said with a sneer. He waved the empty jug. "Specimen on the make here. Clear out."

Wilson, annoyed at being kicked out so quickly and tired all-around, did the first thing that came to his mind: he stuck his tongue out at House over his shoulder as he stepped into the hall. House stuck his tongue out too, but Wilson was gone by then. House sniffed as the door slid shut.

Once he was sure he was alone and had everything positioned, House smiled a little to himself. It took a lot to get a rise out of Wilson like that. After last night…well, he needed to reestablish his boundaries. He'd done a good job of it, he thought. He was almost happy.

Yes, today might be a good day after all, despite Cuddy and her laughable treatment plan: he'd actually slept for more than four hours straight (an accomplishment on any night), Wilson had been quick with the meds when he woke up (he hadn't even had to ask; Wilson had taken one look at his face and gone to the door), Cuddy's vampire had had the good sense to pick a vein that hadn't already been picked (not so with yesterday's mid-afternoon vampire), breakfast, while decidedly less solid than he would've preferred, was good enough and felt good in his stomach, and now he didn't have to pee anymore.

He hit the call button and gingerly settled back to see if anything decent was on television. There was the whole shrink thing coming up, but he'd dealt with shrinks before and knew how to handle them if he wanted them off his case. This one, he was confident, would be no different. And if she was…well, he wasn't too addled yet by drugs or hepatic failure (which hadn't really manifested itself in his not so humble opinion) to keep up with her.

Appadurai. He didn't know much about her. Not married. No kids. About fifty. Hospital gossip had nothing to say and he did his best to avoid the third floor psych unit as a general rule. Normal people were crazy enough to him; he didn't need the ones with the diagnosed disorders bothering him too. She was probably competent and professional; he could handle that blindfolded and backwards.

Alicia from yesterday—was that her name? Alicia? or was it Angela? she did look kind of angelic this morning—came in and took a sample for the lab, noted the volume and did all of that good stuff that House didn't want to watch, then let someone in to whisk his half-built fort away, and then he was alone again. It was nice, being alone. No people: yes, that was why he liked it.

Sunday morning television having nothing to offer, he'd just begun to pine for his yo-yo when she arrived, knocking softly first. People who actually knocked. _That_ was a novelty.

She was early, too. Hmm. Probably Cuddy's doing, trying to psych him out by sending the front line in early while she waited in the back and strategized. She had the element of surprise on her side and she controlled his supply lines but he retained the ability to ignore her ad infinitum: that had always been her Achilles' heel and he was very good at striking it every time. All the same, he reminded himself never to play Risk or Stratego with her. Too dangerous. Someone might get hurt.

He called up whatever professionalism he still possessed and turned the television off, making sure she knew she had his full attention.

"Dr. House, hello," she said offering him her hand. "I'm Dr. Appadurai. I don't believe we've met."

He extended his left hand and without missing a beat, Appadurai took it and gave it a gentle shake.

"No, I don't believe we have," he said, going for witty and charming and nailing them both. "Hospital affairs aren't exactly my cup of tea."

She nodded, smiling. "Psychiatry remains the black sheep of medicine, too," she said.

House nodded with a good-natured smirk. "It's not my favorite department, no," he said amiably.

She sat down in the chair Wilson was normally stationed in and arranged some notes on a clipboard she'd brought with her.

"So," she said, "you know why I'm here. What would you like to talk about?"

"I'd like to talk about my 24 hour roommates," House said in a perfunctory but not brusque tone. "Specifically, about getting rid of them."

"All right," she said, "why don't you tell me what happened."

"I don't know how attuned you are to hospital gossip…" he trailed off.

She inclined her head slightly to the right with the calm air of a Buddha. "I hear things," she said. "But I'd like to hear it from you."

"Fair enough," House said, inclining his head similarly, calm and centered as Zen practitioner. This was a game to him: a game he was very good at. "An ex-girlfriend of mine recently asked me to treat her husband. I did. It was difficult for all involved. He'll be fine; they'll be fine. I made the mistake of letting it get to me and then another mistake by going out on Friday night without having cleared it up. I," he gestured to his body, "—obviously—talked myself into a fight. It was a stupid thing to do. I acted on impulse. I shouldn't have. I don't plan to do it again because I don't like being beaten up." He shrugged. "That's it."

She nodded, making a note on the clipboard. "I understand you take Vicodin for chronic leg pain," she said when she was finished.

She paused, waiting for House to acknowledge it. He nodded once in quick but not overeager affirmation.

"The toxicological report from your ER admittance shows about twice the amount you are prescribed, as well as a high blood-alcohol level," she said. "How did that happen?"

"I lost count," House said with a shrug. "I was, as you pointed out, several sheets to the wind and couldn't remember if I'd taken my 6 o'clock dose."

"That would explain an elevated level," she said, "but not a dangerous level. Did you 'lose count' repeatedly?"

Oh yes. She was good at this. Well, he always won poker games for a reason.

"No," he said honestly while retaining his calm tone. "My leg hurt more than usual. I'd been on my feet too much that day. I know my physical limitations and I went past them. The pills weren't working, so I took a few extra."

"Does this happen often?" she asked.

"Not too often," House said.

"Your pharmacy records indicate that you routinely take 'a few extra'," she charged.

House shrugged, giving nothing away but a willing and honest nature. "My prescription should be reevaluated."

"Your level of pain is worse?" she asked.

"I'm getting older," he said. "It's never going to get better, so it follows that it's getting worse."

"How do you feel about that?"

He shrugged. "It sucks," he said. "But it's part of my life. I wish it wasn't, but it is."

"Do you feel depressed about it?" she asked.

"Well, I certainly don't feel happy about it," he said with a small laugh, adopting a low level of self-criticizing sarcasm that came across as nice and trustworthy rather than his usual bitter and angry. "I know the signs of clinical depression. I don't have them. If I don't want to get out of bed in the morning, it's not because I'm sad." He indicated to his leg.

She nodded to herself and made a note. After a moment, she continued. "The E.R. doctor noted on your chart that he considered your overdose a suicide attempt. Was it?"

"No," House said. "I made a mistake. I got very drunk and took too many pills, but I was not trying to commit suicide."

"Have you thought about suicide before?" she asked.

He nodded slightly. Best to fess up or he'd seem to be hiding something. "Briefly," he said. "Not seriously."

"Before or after your leg was injured?"

"Directly after," he said.

"How often?"

"Only a few times," he said. "Some depression is normal after the sort of injury I had, as you know. It takes a while to get used to the _idea_ that you'll never be the same, never mind the reality of it." He shrugged again, retaining the honesty and calm he'd been projecting. None of her questions were surprising. "I'm still getting used to it. It's not as hard as it was, but it'll never be easy. I don't like being a cripple. Who does?"

"Is that how you see yourself?" she asked. "As a 'cripple'?"

"No, doc, I'm handy-capable," he said with a false smile and a good-natured swing of his left arm.

She smiled, getting that it was a joke.

"No," he said seriously, "it's part of who I am now. The cane's kind of neat. It's great to have a weapon available at all times to shoo away pigeons and small animals that get in my way." He shrugged again. "I don't let it define me. I'm the same person I was before it happened; the only difference is that now I've got stick for swatting young whippersnappers."

She smiled again at his humor and made another note.

"Can you tell me what happened?" she asked after a moment.

"With my leg?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes, with your leg."

"I was misdiagnosed," he said. "Twice. By the time I figured it out, significant muscle damaged had already occurred. I had an aneurism which led to an infarction and went untreated for four days due to incompetence. Upon discovering the problem, I wished to allow reperfusion to occur following an embolectomy in order to retain maximum function. My wishes were overridden while I was unconscious and the muscle was debrided without my knowledge or consent leading to a loss of mobility and nerve damage."

He paused to let her ask the next question. Shrinks, he'd found, disliked it when he anticipated their questions. Apparently, he'd discovered, it made him seem like a smartass.

"How do you feel about that?" she asked (predictably).

"Angry," he answered simply.

"Did you make your wishes known to your doctor?" she asked.

"I did."

"Did your doctor override your wishes?" she asked.

"She did not," House answered.

"Who overrode your wishes?" she asked.

"My girlfriend upon whom I had conferred medical proxy," House answered.

"Are you still with this person?"

"No," he answered.

"Because of her decision?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"How long had you been together?" she asked.

"Five years," he answered.

"Was that the only reason for the breakup?" she asked.

"It was a symptom of a larger problem that defined our relationship," he said.

The rapid-fire reminded him of the standard police interrogation shown in cop shows and law dramas. Which was fine with him: he'd make her work for it now. He'd done his volunteering.

"Do you see her often?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"Is this in any way related to your actions on Friday?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"In what way?" she asked.

"She's the ex-girlfriend whose spouse I treated," he said.

Her lack of surprise didn't come as a surprise to House. This was her game and he was letting her play it.

She made a note. "How do you feel about her bringing his case to you?" she asked.

"Angry," he answered.

"Just angry?" she probed.

"Okay," he said, back to honest and amiable. "I was shocked, too, at first. It was unexpected. I felt betrayed. I didn't know she'd gotten married. I know it wasn't her job to tell me that—we didn't keep in touch—but it still came as an unexpected and unwelcome surprise. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss."

"Do you know why she came to you personally?" she asked.

"No one else could figure out what was wrong with her husband," he stated.

"But you did," she said.

He threw his left hand in the air with a shrug. "I did," he said simply. "That's my job."

"Was that how you saw it?" she asked. "As part of your job?"

"I tried to keep it as professional as possible," he said. "I did everything within my power to treat it like any other case."

"I see," she said making notes. "Did she attempt to personalize it?"

"She did," he said.

"Was she successful?"

"Very," he said, letting the slightest hint of anger and bitterness creep into his voice to retain reality. "She always was good at personalizing things. Pushing my buttons. This was no different."

"She made it more difficult than it had to be?" she asked.

"That's a pretty good way of putting it, yes," he said.

"Now that you've confirmed a correct diagnosis—'figured it out' as you said—have they left? Did they leave Friday?"

"No," he said, "they're still here. He needs to be here for treatment. He's a few floors down, actually. You might pop in and say hi." He gave her a mildly shocked grin, as though talking about this really was affecting him.

She smiled back and noted his attempt to retain a broad perspective.

He paused. Yes, he'd ask her this question and volunteer this information. It fit with the nice guy persona.

"I'm actually a little surprised that Dr. Cuddy didn't mention her to you," he said. "Dr. Cuddy has hired her temporarily while her husband recovers. She—Stacy, why not use names?—worked here for a while some years ago. She's a lawyer."

"Dr. Cuddy acquainted me with the situation, yes, but I wanted to hear it from you," she said smiling.

_Bet you did_, House thought behind a return smile.

"Were you given any say about the hire?" she asked.

"I was," House answered. "Stacy left it to me to approve or disapprove of it."

"So you approve of it?" she said.

"In a manner of speaking," House answered. "I know her. She needs to stay busy just like I do. I wish she wasn't so close, but I know it's an easy way for her to stay occupied and, I guess, help out." He shrugged. "It's a big hospital. I can avoid her if I want to."

"Do you want to?" she asked.

He shrugged again. "I've got nothing to say to her that she hasn't heard from me before. I can't think of anything she'd have to say to me that I'd want to hear. So I don't intend to seek her out. I'd prefer not to see her, but if I do, then I do."

"Is there anything else you'd like to say about her or her spouse?" she asked.

"No," House said. "That's it."

"Okay," she said and paused to make another note. When she was done, she asked, "How well do you sleep at night?"

He shrugged, having expected this question also. "I sleep well enough."

"How many hours on average?" she asked.

"That depends on how busy I am at work, but I'd say somewhere between four and six. Put down five," he said. "That's a nice odd number."

She gave him a small smile at the joke. "Five hours of continuous sleep or a few hours here and there?"

"A few here and there most of the time," he said.

"How did you sleep before you were injured?" she asked.

"About the same," he said. "I've never been much of a sleeper."

"Too anxious or excited to sleep?" she prompted.

"No," he said. "Even when I can get plenty of sleep—when I'm on vacation or I've got a few days off—I don't. I don't seem to require much sleep."

"You don't feel tired during the day?" she asked.

"Not usually, no," he said.

"And you're happy with how you sleep?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I've always slept that way."

"Okay," she said and wrote a few more things down. "How's your sex life?"

"Okay," he said, having expected this also. This was one set of questions that did have correct and incorrect answers and he knew exactly what they were.

"Just okay?" she asked.

"It's not what it was before this," he indicated to his leg, "and it could be better than what it is now, but I'm satisfied with it."

"Do you want to make it better?" she asked.

"Of course," he said.

"What's stopping you?" she asked.

"I'm still gun shy, I guess you could say," he answered. "My last relationship—with Stacy—was extremely intense. I'm not quite ready to pursue something serious again."

"Because of your leg?" she asked.

"In part, yes," he said. "But for the most part, no. I've never been the easiest guy to get along with—as you've probably heard—" he added a smile, "and that has more to do with it than my leg."

"Do you consider yourself less attractive now than you were before you were injured?" she asked.

"Not really," he said. "I've found that some women actually find me more attractive now. I seem mysterious to them I suppose. And others don't." He shrugged.

"Has your Vicodin usage affected your sex drive?" she asked.

"At first it did," he said, "but now it doesn't."

"How often do you masturbate?" she asked.

"Often as I can," he said with a wink.

She smiled at the wink but remained serious. "On average?" she prodded.

"Once a day," he answered. Nice, safe answer. Not too far from the truth.

"Has your injury or your drug use affected the frequency of masturbation?"

"It doesn't now," he said.

"But it used to?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, "when I was recovering and finding the right level of medication."

"Would you say that you're now where you were before you were injured in terms of sex drive?" she asked.

"Not quite," he answered. "I was younger then and in a relationship. If I go back before that relationship—well, that was ten years ago. Age has made more of a difference than anything else." He paused. "But I have a friend who's married and we get about the same amount of sex."

"Okay," she said making more notes. "Is there anything you want to add?"

"No," he said.

He waited patiently while she wrote, wondering if she'd bring the liver failure up next or make her diagnosis now. He'd given her more than enough information. He was thankful that the Demerol he'd gotten was intravenous. It was keeping him mellow enough to pull this off. She'd touched on difficult subjects; he'd known she would—most of his skeletons were coming out of the closet for this meeting—he'd expected that. On the whole, though, he felt like it had been too easy.

"Well," she said after a moment, "I don't think you're suicidal."

He nodded slightly. "Good," he said, "neither do I."

And now the pay-off, the fun part, the part where her training really showed: he'd see what drug she wanted to put him on. To him psychiatrists were nothing more than legal pushers. …but then, most doctors were nothing more than legal pushers—patients never seemed happy unless they went home with a few prescriptions—so she wasn't too different from the hundred other monkeys running around the hospital with stethoscopes and licenses to screw with people's chemistry. Still, waiting to see what level of sugar pill she wanted to give him made sitting through the Q&A part worth it.

She smiled. "I do think, however, that you would benefit from a nightly dose of amitriptyline—Elavil. It can help with chronic pain and it should help you sleep. Have you ever taken it before?"

"Nope," he said and bit back, _I don't like to take drugs I don't need_.

"All right," she said. "I'd like to start you on 50 milligrams tonight."

He nodded slightly. "Check with Cuddy first, though," he volunteered, "she's switching my meds around today."

"I will," she said smiling as she got up to leave. "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. House," she said extending her left hand.

He shook it. "Pleasure's all mine," he said and smiled. This time it was a real, slightly devious smile. Damn, he was good. Cuddy would be speechless. He almost wished he could be there to see the look on her face when her top shrink told her he had all of his marbles and probably a few of someone else's.

She closed the door and he sighed happily and leaned back. Finally, that was done with. _Finally_. No more watchdogs and a pill he could palm very, very easily. A pill, actually, that he could take for a few days to enhance the illusion of his compliance without it screwing with his head. Not a bad choice. He felt a certain respect for her: she was right, after all, about amitriptyline as a possible solution for chronic pain. He disagreed with the empirical evidence but at the same time, it showed that she knew her stuff. Not too bad at all.

He yawned, unaware that he was sleepy, and settled into a comfortable position. Might even catch a nap.

Nope, not too bad at all.

And even better than her drug rec and the relatively low starting dose was that she hadn't recommended that he see some sort of counselor or therapist.

Wow. He'd been _good_. Really, _really_ good.

He might just make it in Hollywood with an act this good. Or, even better, he might make it on Broadway. Yep, his act might sell all the way to Broadway. He could play a young Willy Loman or an American Macbeth or a skinny, cane-wielding Falstaff. Or, if he were smart, he could take his acting skills straight to Ron Jeremy. Everyone knew porn sold better than Shakespeare on any given day.

Or—even better—he might be _General Hospital_ material. Oh yeah. He'd make a great sexy tv doc. His character's backstory could involve a shark attack that occurred while saving the buxom cast of _Baywatch _from certain death. The headline: Real Life Hero, Real Hot Doc. He'd wear an eye patch and make it with all the vulnerable young starlets on and off screen. Wilson would crap his pants with jealousy.

He smiled to himself as he fell asleep. Yes, it would be grand…


	16. Paddington

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.

**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** It's been a while. I know. Sorry. :sheepish: More at the bottom. Oh, and the quotes from _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ are definitely not mine. Ken Kesey's or Milos Forman's or whoever did the screenplay – someone, but not me.

* * *

**Chapter 16: Paddington**

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said. "I just find it difficult to believe that Gregory House isn't a lunatic."

Seated across from her was Appadurai, who'd just given a medical opinion to the effect that House was not in fact a nutcase.

Cuddy sighed. "I always thought the world made more sense that way," she said.

"It probably does," agreed Appadurai smiling, "and while I don't believe he was being completely forthright, I don't believe he's suicidal either."

Cuddy nodded at the floor, blowing out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She was surprised at how relieved she felt. She hadn't _really_ believed that he was trying to off himself, but still… If anyone had a good reason to do it—if there _could_ be a good reason to do it—it was House. His life hadn't gotten easier in the last year despite his renewed interest in work. Every moment of his life was inscribed with pain. Everyone knew that walking hurt, but only she and Wilson (and maybe, she allowed, Cameron, Chase, and Foreman; perhaps Masterson too) knew that sitting hurt, lying down hurt, and even propping the leg up hurt—in varying degrees, of course, but something always hurt. If it wasn't an overtaxed hamstring or calf, it was frayed nerves. If the nerves were calm, it was sore tendons and ligaments in the knee. If it wasn't the knee, it was the ankle or hip joint. And if not that, it was his shoulder or a sore wrist or elbow from too much pressure, or strained biceps. And if none of those—well, the list went on. Practically any muscle group or joint on his right side, although all were strengthened from years of carrying extra weight, was subject to rebellion—soreness, stiffness, strain: any number of painful complaints. Unless he overcame his vanity and consented to amputation, nothing would ever change. Wilson had told her that the last time he reminded House that amputation was still an option, House had taken a swing at him, connecting with the wall so hard when Wilson dodged the hit that he'd jammed his wrist and avoided writing and video games for over a week.

"He's depressed," Appadurai added, "Not clinically depressed, but depressed enough that pharmacological treatment would help him—and he knows it, but he would only acknowledge it to a point."

Cuddy nodded silently. This came as no surprise to her.

"I still think Elavil's the best treatment option right now but he mentioned that you're changing his meds…"

"Right," Cuddy said, hands folded on her desk top. "He's been on Vicodin for a number of years, as you know, and his current LFTs indicate that he's nearly in stage I liver failure. Pain management, as we discussed, has always been a problem for him, but it's clear to everyone around him that he should stop taking acetaminophen immediately. We're tapering his Demerol dose right now and we're going to start him on 600 milligrams of Neurontin this evening and increase the dosage until we find a level that works for him or know for certain that it doesn't work. I hope it doesn't come to it, but we plan to try Tegretol and Dilantin if Neurontin doesn't work."

Appadurai's brows had furrowed during the course of Cuddy's talk. "Impaired liver function?" she said.

"Yes," Cuddy said, "he has an appointment with Dr. Myers tomorrow for a full work-up, but Dr. Wilson and I are certain that it's acetaminophen toxicity from years of Vicodin use and—" she made a face, "it's pointless to deny it now, abuse. His labs support this diagnosis, but House is a borderline alcoholic, too, and has been for several years, so we're expecting to find some degree of cirrhosis."

Appadurai nodded. She'd seen House's medical records and based on what Cuddy had told her yesterday, she was not surprised.

"In that case, I would recommend postponing treatment until tomorrow's tests have been conducted, especially since his depression isn't severe," Appadurai said.

For a moment, Cuddy envied her. She wasn't close to this case. This wouldn't keep her up tonight.

"Elavil is a known hepatic toxin," Appadurai added.

Cuddy nodded shortly in agreement. "It would be wise to err on the side of major organs at this point, you're right. I'd say that another day won't hurt him but with House, nothing is ever certain. His case is complicated, though. He has legitimate pain that controls his life…"

"He doesn't seem like the type who would consider amputation—not five years after the fact," Appadurai said.

"No, he won't," Cuddy said. "He would have a much easier time if he'd use crutches or a wheelchair from time to time—either option would reduce muscle strain significantly and if we could get him on something to help the neuropathic pain, he'd be in much better shape—but he's never been one to compromise, which is why he's in the situation he's in right now." Cuddy sighed. "At this point, he'd rather let himself die of liver failure than change his medication or lifestyle. Stubborn to a fault doesn't even begin to cover it."

Appadurai smiled knowingly. "That was the impression I got. I'd like to follow-up with him on Tuesday to determine a starting dose in order to be exact as possible and minimize hepatic damage. In the meantime, he should meet with a counselor. Most of his problems aren't chemical. His attitude toward his liver failure inclines me to reconsider his status with regard to suicide."

Cuddy shook her head. "He's just being stubborn," she said. "He's a child. And a counselor—" she sniffed, "he eats counselors for breakfast. It would never work. He shuts down completely. It's a nightmare." She paused. "But you got through to him and he didn't make you cry—you should get a medal for outstanding courage and bravery. What do I have to do to persuade you to conduct, let's say, five sessions with him over the next few days?"

Appadurai snorted. "Some serious schedule rearranging and a few favors," she said, "but I think it can be done."

"Excellent," Cuddy said. "Thank you."

Talking House into this one was going take some real doing.

* * *

Wilson stood outside House's room holding a familiar brown teddy bear in his hands, wondering what to do with it. The moment would be creepy if he'd actually picked out the bear he'd sent to Stacy and Mark last week himself. His secretary had better taste in bears than he did, he imagined, and he got her to pick them out for his pediatric patients who either had a paucity of flowers and stuffed animals or were going to be around for a long while, and the same went for old friends whose spouses ended up in the PPTH clink. He'd treated the situation with Mark and Stacy no differently, writing the card for them himself, as was his practice. And although he hadn't actually seen the bear he'd sent to them last week, he didn't need to go down to Mark's room to know that this bear was identical to the one there. She would make sure it was. She'd always been detail-oriented.

And now he held it in his hands and wondered whether he should take it in to House. Did he really need a reminder of her in the room?

The things she'd said to him weren't new to Wilson; he'd heard something similar more than a few times himself. But his old girlfriends had never come back after five years to tell him that; they'd never been that sincere to begin with. If he detached himself from memory and analyzed the situation objectively, he understood why she'd gone to him and said what she'd said. House had never really stopped loving her and Wilson didn't need to hear him say it to know that though House would never forgive her, he did still want to have another chance with her. And, like he'd said at the bar after dragging Wilson away from a tenuous family gathering, he wanted her to suffer.

Neither one of those two things would make him happy in the long run. The bear was just weird, too. Seeing it might bring more self-destruction…but there was always the same chance that it would help. House was so hard to read when it came to Stacy. Well, seeing Stacy come back hadn't helped him—not _really_…or had it? the liver failure coming to light…—seeing the bear would probably only make things worse. It _was_ really weird.

He was about to turn back to the elevators for his office to re-gift the bear later when three nurses swooped into the room at a half-panicked jog.

That couldn't possibly be good.

He jogged after them, crowding into the room only to hear House say sarcastically, "Yes, I'm flatlining." He spread his good arm out exposing his chest. "Shock away."

Oh. House had gotten bored again and pulled the EKG leads off, making the monitor whine shrilly.

"Why did you do that?" Wilson asked dumbly, the bear hanging forgotten by an arm in his left hand.

Three looks of consternation and one look of boredom turned on Wilson.

"It was beeping at me," House said defensively, scratching his chest vigorously where the EKG leads had been.

All three nurses rolled their eyes; two left and one looked quizzically at Wilson, who waved a dismissive hand. She started collecting the offending monitor.

"You couldn't just reach over and turn it off?" Wilson asked tiredly. House's antics always got old eventually, but Wilson found that there was a direct correlation between his tolerance for House's monkey business and how much sleep he'd gotten the night before. Things did not bode well for his blood pressure today.

"I thought this would be more dramatic," House said, "and look, I was right!" He grinned sanctimoniously at the nurse as she left with the heart monitor. "Bye now," he said and waved, grin widening. "Come again."

Wilson rolled his eyes at House. "If you're found dead tomorrow, it's your own fault," he said flopping into the chair he'd recently come to think of as home. "I wash my hands of you."

"A lot of people want me dead," House scoffed. "They'll have to get in line like everyone else." He scratched his chest again, making a face. "In the meantime, I've got hair to re-grow."

"Thanks," Wilson said making a face, "I really wanted that image in my head right before lunch."

He reached up instinctively with his left hand to rub his face only to find that he still the bear with him. He panicked for a moment, thinking House hadn't seen it yet and if he could just drop it quietly to the floor maybe House wouldn't…_damn, he's seen it_. Not knowing what else to do, Wilson put the bear in his lap, holding it to him with his left arm as though it had every right to be there with him, that it was in fact his and not for House at all.

House's eyebrows shot up at Wilson's obvious dismay that he'd noticed his friend's furry friend. A very familiar-looking furry friend… Yes, he knew exactly where he'd seen a bear like that before. But no need to tip his hand. Having slept for a little while and having nothing to look forward to but lunch which was an hour or so away, he was bored now—that's why he'd pulled off the EKG leads, it had been something to do to pass the time—but tormenting Wilson would keep him occupied for a few minutes at least. Wilson might even make a scene. House was feeling just diabolical enough to try something. Anything that distracted him from his present situation—sitting on his ass, unable to go anywhere, totally bored—was a good thing. If Wilson hadn't shown up when he did, the IV line would be gone now too.

"Cute," he said nodding at the bear. "Are you doing someone in the gift shop now or did you just come back from a carnival?"

"Nope," Wilson said, the bear still clutched to him. What to do now? He knew House knew. It wasn't possible to deflect him.

"It's for you," he added lamely, trying to keep his voice natural and make House believe he'd intended to give him the bear all along.

"You shouldn't have," House said. "I'm no Mark."

"It's not from me," Wilson said, trying to act like he didn't care what House thought. He'd remain tight-lipped as long as House wanted to play the game.

House's face fell. Part of the game. "Oh no," he groaned. "Please tell me Cameron didn't send it."

"It's not from Cameron," Wilson said.

"You're not just saying that, right?" House said, feigning anxiety.

"I was just saying it, but no, I wasn't just saying it," Wilson said rolling his eyes.

House made an exasperated noise. "How many times do I have to tell Chase 'no' before he gets it," he said. "I can't be bought by stuffed animals."

"You know who it's from," Wilson said finally, tired and annoyed and not in any mood to play the game any longer. He held the bear out in front of him and appraised it. "Looks familiar, doesn't he?"

"Well, I only got a glance at it," House said indifferently, averting his eyes.

"You mean you didn't stand outside and study every detail?" Wilson pressed sardonically. He really should've taken a nap earlier while he had the chance…

"Wasn't the bear I was studying," House said softly, far away for a moment, gazing intently on the blanket covering him. Then his head snapped up. "Why'd you bring it?" he asked suspiciously. "Why not let the flower patrol bring it in? They get paid to do that." He paused. "Or were you afraid I'd rip its head off and drink the stuffing?" he added savagely, voice full of contempt and poorly-suppressed anger.

"Something like that," Wilson said tiredly.

"Well, don't worry, Paddington's safe with me," House said. He gazed at the bear openly for a moment. "It is vaguely Hitchcockian, though, don't you think?" he added. "Weird to say the least."

"Hitchcockian," Wilson said turning the word over in his mouth, "that's an adjective I'd use." He paused. "Sparingly," he added, "but I would use it."

House made a face at Wilson's jibe. "Hand it over," House said and reached toward the bear.

Wilson hesitated, holding the bear to his chest. "If I give it to you, you've got to promise not to torch it until you're off hospital property."

"Who died and made you Cuddy?" House said. "It's my bear, hand it over." Wilson still hesitated. House rolled his eyes. "What am I gonna light it with, tubing? C'mon. The card too."

"She didn't send one," Wilson said with a shrug, handing House the bear.

"I think it's a tad left of legal for you to be censoring my mail," House said. He held the bear out and glanced at his broken wrist. Damn. He flipped the bear over so its bottom was facing up at him. "Help me do a cavity search," he said, "there's a note around here somewhere."

"I knew you'd rip him open," Wilson said. "What did he ever do to you?"

"You never know," House said, playing with the tag on the bear's hind end. "Could be a bomb sewn up in this little fella. Or fella-ette." He paused. "If you're not going to give me the card, at least tell me what she said."

"You care?" Wilson asked, eyebrow raised.

"Humor me," House said, swinging his head toward Wilson with a half-eye roll.

"There isn't any card," Wilson said. "A nurse's aid handed it to me when I checked in. She said it was dropped off for you but didn't come with a card or any other paperwork. She thought that was a little weird and asked me about it."

"So it _could _be from Cameron," House said scratching his chin. "Or—" he shuddered openly, "Cuddy." Mock panic lit up his face and he tossed the bear back to Wilson as though it were a hot potato. "Gotta be a bomb in there. Cuddy's finally found a way to finish me off."

"Paranoia," Wilson said clucking, turning the bear over as if looking for a timing device. He held it up to his ear and listened. "It's not ticking," he said wiggling the bear in his hand.

House rolled his eyes.

"Be sure to tell your head doctor about your sudden stuffed animal phobia," Wilson said. "I'm sure that's in the DSM IV."

House snorted. "Right next to 'I see dead people.'" He paused. "You shouldn't bring suspiciously cuddly toys in here without a full inquiry into their origin."

"I think 'Inspected by #32' is the closest I'd ever get," Wilson said. He offered the bear to House again. "Sure you don't want to sleep with it?"

House rolled his eyes again. "I'm not even going to _begin _to let you bait me with that."

"Who's bating you?" Wilson said innocently. "Nice, soft toy. Remind you of happier times."

"What makes you think I had a happy stuffed-bear-filled childhood?"

"Your mom has told me stories," Wilson reminded him, "and I've seen the pictures. My favorite is the one of naked two-year old you in the bathtub with a bucket on your head and your tongue stuck out at the camera."

House glared at him and Wilson shrugged. "You looked happy."

House's ire increased visibly.

"And then there's the one of you at Christmas with that gigantic white monkey—tell me you didn't love that monkey—"

"Shut up now or I _will _bring up your bar mitzvah—wetting your pants like that, shameful—"

Wilson glared at him.

"See, now I'm nice enough to stuff my gob when you seem annoyed."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like you always do that." He held the bear back up. "He is a cutey. Sure you don't want to have a nap? Suck your thumb a little?"

"And then, after you'd wet your pants in public, in front of all of those relatives—"

"Wittle Gwegowy has nightmawes and intimacy pwobwems," Wilson said loudly to the bear imitating a child's speech. "He's afwaid to get cwose to you, but you shouwdn't take it personawy."

"Keep talking and I'll kick you out," House said. He added with an air of smugness, "I can do that now."

Wilson addressed the bear again. "Gwegowy's awso a tywant."

"If you weren't five feet away, I'd kick your ass," House said, genuinely annoyed now.

"Gwegowy has angerw pwobwems too," Wilson told the bear.

"Elmer Fudd called; he wants his shtick back."

"Gwegowy hearws voices," Wilson said to the bear.

House threw up his good hand. "And you call _me_ childish," he said rolling his eyes. "What's for lunch?" he asked, hoping Wilson would let the bear routine go. "Orw is Jimmy stiwl tawking to his wittle fwiend?"

"You sound like you're from Brooklyn," Wilson said. "Cut it out." He passed the lunch sheet to House. "I think it's a little late to put in an order," he said, "but tell me what you want and I'll go down and get it."

"Salisbury steak is the default?" House said to himself, "what is this, South Park?"

"You don't look too animated to me," Wilson said.

"Very punny," House replied.

Wilson shrugged and tossed the bear back to him. House half-caught, half-dodged the flying toy as it landed in his lap.

"Thank you," he said dryly, "that really helps matters." He laid the paper menu on the bear and thwacked it with his middle finger. "I don't want any of this."

"Sure the Swedish Meatballs don't tickle your fancy?" Wilson said.

"Slop," House said dismissively. "Taco Bell's Grade F Chihuahua meat with a side of cockroach kabobs is better than the formless gray lumps they try to pass off as food down there." He balled up the sheet and threw it at Wilson who ducked to avoid being hit. "I'd sooner eat Paddington here, cute little brown nose, dimples and all." He leaned back a slightly, stiff after holding himself up for so long. He was feeling decidedly punchy.

"Bring me something so greasy and fatty that I'll be able to feel my arteries shake with fear," he declared.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'll bring you whatever isn't trying to hop off the tray and run for its life," he said.

"You won't be left with much choice," House muttered. "Peas and carrots can really leg it when they want to."

"I'll make due," Wilson assured him.

House rolled his eyes, starting to feel the medication wearing off. "Just bring me a Rueben or something," he muttered.

"Dripping wet?" Wilson asked, trying to hide a grin. "Extra pickles?"

"I'm going to kill you," House said seriously, face totally impassive. "As soon as Masterson's apes wrap me up," he held up his wrist, "I'm going to beat you to death in your sleep."

"You know you're on tablets from now on, right?" Wilson said snickering. House really _was _going to kill him for this but he was tired enough and punch-drunk enough not to care too much. "Aside from the Vistaril, but that's going tomorrow morning."

"_I_ have a death wish?" House said rhetorically to the air. He pointed at Wilson. "_You_ have a death wish." He held up the bear. "Wilson has a death wish, Paddington. Maybe a cuddle would help ease his suicidal tendencies."

Wilson snickered again, then sobered up quickly. "Orders from above," he said, pointing at the ceiling.

"She's that way," House said, pointing down. "Closer to Satan."

Wilson sniffed a laugh. He sat back in his chair and watched House fidget with the bear. House's posture told him that he was tired again and starting to hurt, but if he was fidgeting, it meant only one thing: "You're bored," he said.

"I'm bored," House replied without looking up.

"You're restless," Wilson charged.

"Why shouldn't I be?" House said irritably. "I'm cleared. I can go home and sleep this off. I _want_ to go home and sleep this off."

"Do I really have to list all the reasons why that's a bad idea and isn't going to happen any time soon?" Wilson said.

"I can sign out AMA," House said.

"You can't walk out of here," Wilson said, "because you can't walk."

"I can crawl," House sniffed. "That's good enough for me." He paused. "In fact, Cuddy and a large part of the staff here would probably pay to see that."

"You actually want to humiliate yourself?" Wilson said incredulously, though he wasn't serious because he knew House wasn't serious.

"If it gets me back to Casa de Moi," House said with a shrug.

"What will you do for drugs?" Wilson asked.

"I've got money," House shrugged. "I know people."

"Like who?" Wilson scoffed.

"Foreman," House said. "And about half a dozen unscrupulous medical practitioners who'd be more than happy to write for me. I also happen to have my very own prescription pad with my name on it and everything, and an Aunt Millie who has a bad back and glaucoma and just happens to be living in my spare room. Medicare's screwing her up the bunghole; she needs something to take the edge off."

Wilson frowned to himself. Never in all his years of writing for House had this subject come up. In fact, he let House run him over when it came to daily Vicodin intake because he knew that House could easily abuse the self-prescribing loophole and he didn't want him starting down that road. He had his suspicions about whether House had done it before but he'd never brought it up and he _really_ didn't expect House to bring it up. Either way, he couldn't ignore it now. Cuddy would have to be told. But surely House knew that…was this another cry for help? He shook his head; House wouldn't be so obvious.

"That really should be illegal," Wilson muttered to himself.

"Probably," House agreed, "but it's not and who am I to question the system?"

The words _you wouldn't_ sprang to Wilson's tongue. He closed his mouth. No need to provoke House into doing it just to spite him. He didn't want to say what he was about to say either but House hadn't left him with a choice.

"You know I have to tell Cuddy," he said.

House snorted. "If I had really planned to do it, would I have mentioned it at all?" he said. Wilson caught the tacit _I'm disappointed in you for not figuring that out on your own_ in House's body language.

"You know I had to say it," Wilson said seriously, looking at the floor. He didn't want to have this conversation. He stood to leave.

"Narcing so soon?" House sneered.

"Just getting lunch," Wilson said lightly.

"Bring something for the bear, too," House said. "When he's hungry he can be a real—" he paused and glanced upward, "what's the word? Starts with a 'buh' sound."

"Don't say it," Wilson warned. He patted his shirt and pants pockets, "I'm sure I have something sharp and pointy I can stick you with here somewhere."

"Don't say what?" House said innocently. "'Bear'? 'Bitch' would have been a good guess but the species is all wrong. Actually I was thinking boar—or bore, I'm not going to spell homonyms out, I trust you get me—but thanks for playing. Ta ta."

"Extra pickles," Wilson said sliding the door open. "So sopping wet they'll need a mop to clean it up…"

"Bring it with pickles and mops _will_ be involved," House interjected threateningly.

"…practically _bleeding _Russian dressing, the UN will be all over us for crimes against humanity, and—"

House threw the bear at him, wincing a little: too many tosses for his ribs to handle. Wilson ducked defensively, glared at House, and retrieved the toy.

"Gwegowy doesn't wike us," he said to it and tucked it under his arm, disappearing behind the glass door before House could say or throw anything else.

Once he was sure that Wilson was gone, he relaxed all of his muscles, going completely limp. As relaxation techniques went, this was the only one he was any good at when he was without drugs, alcohol, sex, or masseuses. As such, it was a last resort, but at least it worked (sometimes). That is, it worked with everything but the leg, but he was used to that and he was surprised at how good it felt to release bodily tension he hadn't been aware of now.

Must've been the damn bear.

How could she? _Why_ would she?

_No. Not going to think about that. Relax, relax, relax. Frankie says Relax. _

He breathed in slowly, as deeply as he could, and forced his overwrought muscles to stop trying to shake. He was absolutely wiped out despite the nap he'd gotten and whatever role the appearance of cute cuddly toy number 1 from insane ex number 3 had played in exacerbating the physical hell he was in, he knew what the real cause was. Withdrawal, even medicated, monitored, baby-stepped withdrawal, was, nonetheless, withdrawal and withdrawal was a bitch.

_And crap. Tablets. Please no. Not yet. _

He tried hard to hope that Wilson had been kidding about P.O. meds—tablets, oh yummy, absorbed through the stomach, consequently packing much less of a punch, not fun, no way—but he knew Cuddy too well and just couldn't bring himself to put faith in anyone, not even Wilson, when he knew Cuddy was pulling the strings. There was always the old finger down the throat gag to pull an 'I'm too sick for pills, but lookie here, there's a nice tube in my arm—a nice muscle in my ass too—and hey, doesn't that stuff come in injections?' but Wilson would be wise to that scheme. He already felt bad enough as it was and wanted to experience the miracle of digestion unimpeded by foreign objects and pharyngeal reflexes. Of course, odds were that the sauerkraut in his sandwich had been some place it shouldn't have been, possibly for a very long time, and that would do the job… except that he didn't want the job done. He wanted food, drugs, and sleep, in that order. Okay, so he'd take them out of order if it came to that…

He stared blankly at the floor, feeling like a lobotomized Jack Nicholson at the end of _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. Where was The Chief when he needed a window smashed for a quick getaway? Or Martini when he needed a martini? _'Is that crazy enough for ya'? Want me to take a shit on the floor?' _Physics, he considered, were working against him on that one, but he supposed he could make an effort. Somebody somewhere would appreciate the petty, juvenile nature of that act. Probably Ken Kesey if he wasn't too busy ragging on Tim Leary somewhere in Beatnik heaven for having his ashes shot into space along with bits of Gene Roddenberry. Pretentious much?

Timothy Leary. Now _there_ was a guy who had good drugs. And a school bus, but mainly the drugs. Drugs…

House's eye lit on the IV line in his left arm. It would have to go if they were taking him off the good stuff. That would be an adventure: trying to get it out of his left arm without damaging the vein or his right wrist. Interesting. But he wasn't interested in interesting right now.

'_I must be crazy to be in a loony bin like this'. You said it, McMurphy_.

He missed his yo-yo. Staring blankly at All My Children, he idly drummed his fingers on the bed. What he wouldn't give to pace right about now… Sleep would work too but…_damn_, _feeling too crappy. No way I'm going to get to sleep right now._

Because really, until his wrist healed enough that it could tolerate video games and take on his weight once more, he didn't have anything to do but sleep and watch tv. Not that that was very different from what he normally did… Maybe he could get Wilson to sneak him a choice case or two…but…no, the idea of having someone else write on the whiteboard wounded his pride too much, nevermind having his staff sneaking curious glances at him while he lay there, unable to do anything but bite their heads off until they finally left, suddenly not at all interested in the case at hand but very interested in turning the diagnostic skills he'd worked so hard to help them hone on him. That was the very last thing he wanted in the universe. And not being able to storm out at a key moment would really steal his thunder, plus his ability to avoid them.

No. No cases. He didn't want to see or be seen right now.

However, he wasn't able to kid himself into believing that they wouldn't find out first thing tomorrow morning. One of them was in the office now (or should be) looking after Mark. He…he?...yes, he, it was Chase, may already know. He didn't expect Chase to turn up with flowers any time soon, but Cameron… Well, he may not have seen the last of the gift shop's stuffed toy selection, though he liked to think he'd trained that impulse out of her by now. And Foreman. Foreman would probably show with a lecture and questions about taking cases while he was out of commission. Chase might be a good boy and fetch his yo-yo for him—maybe sneak his boss some spirits too—but that was the only good that could possibly come out of their knowing what was up. Worst of all was that he knew with absolute certainty that no matter what Cuddy or Wilson told them, they would have questions. Sure, they probably wouldn't ask those questions—well, maybe Cameron would since she'd become very direct of late—but the questions would still be there every time they looked at him. They'd be doing a lot more looking at him than usual, too. This had been a really bad idea.

Idea. Impulse. Plan.

At this point, he wasn't sure any longer which of those it had been. It was all three, yes, but which had been the dominant motive? The idea that he could use a good amount of drinking? The impulse to taunt that trucker? The plan to down enough pills that he wouldn't feel anything by the time the night was over? He had that idea all the time. The impulse, too, to taunt people meaner and stronger than he was. The plan to feel as little as possible without…without overdosing. The plan was never to overdose, never to die. The idea to die didn't come around very often anymore. The impulse to die…well, Vicodin was good about suppressing impulses. Impulses went into remission along with sensation. Anesthesia. Dullness. Suppression.

Looking back, he was amazed that he'd had it in him to go three rounds with that giant of a simian: two CNS depressants didn't add up to a stimulant and certainly didn't provide the coordination necessary to express piss and vinegar. He'd just been so hurt. So stung. When the shock had finally worn off, he'd been so angry and felt so wronged. Normally he sulked. He liked sulking. The drugs he took were conducive to sulking—hell, they induced sulking. It must have been the pressure of holding it in, keeping up the unreadable façade and then boom, explosion. Impulse streaking through chemistry, beating it down, making him want a beating. Only the moment had mattered then. Trying to feel something again, pain that wasn't from his leg or his stupid innards. He didn't like pain but seeing as he was stuck with it, he needed to break up the monotony.

He sniffed to himself. Every part of his body hurt. He was edgy and exhausted from detoxing. Broken in all of the places that would most deprive him of work and fun. Just perfect. This had been the worst idea.

What was _taking_ so long? He sniffed again. Wilson was probably chatting up whatever hot young thing had landed next to him in line. Now _there_ was an impulsive guy…

He belted out the opening bars of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vita on the mattress, tricking his brain to play the treble part with his bass hand. He blew out a bored breath. He wasn't even hungry anymore. Just listless. Restless. Irritated.

He missed his yo-yo.


	17. Strychnine in the Guacamole

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **I recall a request for suspense. Here's some suspense. :eg: The ducks are on their way, but we've got suspense first.

LurkerAtLarge – Glad you liked the last chapter! Thanks very much for saying so. :)

* * *

**Chapter 17 Part 1: Strychnine in the Guacamole**

Wilson sat in his office. It was late; he was tired; he knew he should go to his couch and try to sleep, but he didn't think sleep was going to come right now.

Lunch had gone well. House had been hungry and the Reuben to his liking. He'd turned up his nose at the plastic cup and Demerol tablet inside it that Wilson had offered him after lunch, but after enough time had passed for his formal protest to be lodged, he'd taken it. Wilson knew he recognized that he didn't have any other options, especially since PT was coming up.

To House's supreme annoyance, he'd been deemed stinky and given a bath. Wilson had tactfully left the room and returned after a reasonable amount of time with a six pack of chocolate vanilla swirl pudding cups to smooth House's feathers out. House ate four, grudgingly let Wilson have the last one so Wilson got two, and both of them had fallen asleep for a few hours before one of Masterson's residents had shown up to plaster House's wrist.

Wilson had been amused at Masterson's choice. Apparently, she was one of the few people in the hospital whom House had not offended and she was absolutely smitten with him. She confessed she'd been watching and admiring him from afar for a while. Wilson had barely been able to contain himself when she produced the outer wrap for the cast: sky blue. She said she'd chosen it herself because it complemented his eyes—eyes which House had promptly rolled so high that Wilson thought they might leap out of their sockets and pummel her to death.

Wilson had gotten a solid fifteen minutes' tormenting out of that, laughing himself into total weakness and nearly falling on the floor.

"And then when she said—" he was laughing so hard he had to gasp for air, "your eyes—" he gasped, hiccupping, "your eyes, so blue—" his face was red, his side hurt from so much laughing, "like—" he gasped, "like—cornflowers—" his chest hurt he was laughing so hard, "but they didn't have any—" he choked on the words, barely able to get them out, "didn't have any—any cornflower blue!" He broke into a fit of coughing, knowing he'd pull a few abdominal muscles or give himself a hernia, but it was so worth it, "—like the color of the sky—" he coughed and gasped for air, "the color of the sky—the sky in late autumn when—" he could barely speak now, he couldn't get enough air in, "when the leaves change!"

House had his death-ray glare trained firmly on Wilson. "I hate you."

Wilson coughed and sucked in air and laughed for a moment, then resumed his taunting.

"You remember that guy, the guy from the clinic?" he said, slapping his knee, grabbing his mid-section, it hurt so much to laugh, but it was so damn funny, "'Do her or you're gay'?" He couldn't laugh any harder or he'd die of laughing, "Dude—" he choked on air again, "you have to!" He coughed, "'Oh, Dr. House, I just had to say something'!" he said imitating her voice. He gasped again, "'I'd just die if I didn't'!" He collapsed in a fit of laughter and coughing again.

"I'm going to murder you."

"'I was so happy when Dr. Chris—'"

"Strychnine."

"—'when Dr. Chris gave me the file and I saw'—"

"Botulism."

"—'and I saw it was you, because you're just so'—"

"Sulfuric acid."

"—'I shouldn't say this, I know, but you're just so'—"

"Bleach."

"—'just so'—"

"Digitalis."

"—'just so gorgeous!'"

"I'm going to smother you with this pillow."

"She's going to—" he gasped, "—going to smother you—" he choked, "—smother you with love!"

House hit him hard with the pillow, winced, fell back, and glared at him. "Asshole," he grumbled.

Wilson held the pillow up and inhaled deeply. "She's going to want this," he said between gasps, "it smells like you."

"I'm going to run over you in the parking garage," House threatened. "I won't even look back."

Wilson kept going and House waved his newly-casted sky blue forearm at him but that started to hurt after a while, Wilson could tell, and House changed tactics by upping the television volume to maximum and commenting loudly on each play of the baseball game on tv.

"You should tell Cameron—"

"He's going to throw a change-up this time—"

"—and she and, what was her name, Heather?—"

"—see, he threw a change-up and it got right past the batter—"

"—she and Heather can fight over you—"

"—the catcher wants a fast ball—"

"—cage match—"

"—but he's going to throw a curve ball—"

"—they can claw each other, Heather had nice nails—"

"—because the count is 1-1—"

"—biting, scratching, which one loves you the most?—"

"—and you throw a curve ball on a 1-1 count—"

"—I don't know which, but this is the best way to tell—"

"—oh, shouldn't have swung at that, he pulled it—"

"—without a doubt, cage match is the way to tell—"

"—but oh man the shortstop dropped it! he dropped it!—"

"—because if she loves you, she'll cat fight for you—"

"—now that's just a lack of fundamentals—"

"—and you can take that to the bank—"

"—shameful, shameful, how'd they get this far?—"

"—or I can, because I'm selling tickets—"

"—you bastard, that's my money!"

House tried to beat him again and Wilson worked harder on laughing his ass off.

That had been the high point of the day, though. Things had gone downhill after that.

Wilson glanced over at the bear. He'd dropped it off in his office before he went to get lunch. It was only this morning that he'd received it and given it to House. How worried he'd been then that it would freak House out. Yeah, that was a big worry. He sighed, head in his hands.

House would be fine. Fine. He'd be fine. Or Wilson wouldn't be in his office right now—he'd be upstairs pacing and chewing his nails unconsciously. But he wasn't. Because House would be fine.

His gut twisted all the same. He rubbed his forehead and picked up a pencil to chew on the eraser. He wasn't worried. No. Not worried. Not at all.

He dropped back in his chair and threw the pencil across the room. Shit.

He'd seen it coming and still…

Shit.

_Shit_.


	18. Acquiescence

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **Aww, you guys do care. I'm gonna beg more often! I feel warm and fuzzy. Thank you. :) Re: Will House and Wilson ride off into the sunset at the end of this fic? No way! No one falls in love and no one rides off into the sunset – trying to keep it real here. As to that, my beta tells me this chapter is rough. I apologize (sorta). And for the fact that this has become a three part chapter and the suspense is still sorta there too. :ducks to avoid flames:

* * *

**Chapter 17 Part 2: Acquiescence**

Wilson chewed on the tail end of another pencil, then tapped it against his desk, recalling the day, trying to figure out where he'd screwed up. _If_ he'd screwed up, he tried to remind himself, _if_.

PT had been—there was no other word for it—absolutely horrible. There had been times during House's initial recovery when he'd fake pain to get out of PT—he got really good at it in a short amount of time, he'd always been great at manipulating people when it served his ends—and both Wilson and Masterson had tried their best to learn his tells. That led inevitably to PT being stretched out over a longer period of time than it should've been, but also to one of the two of them relenting when House was faking or not relenting when he wasn't. The latter really pissed House off and led to more of the former, needlessly complicating the situation and setting PT back even further. Wilson was never really sure if he had made the right choice either—all he could do was try to reduce the mistakes he made by being conservative.

Today he hadn't been conservative. Today they'd both thought House had been faking. They'd pushed him. They'd been wrong. Really wrong.

And House would be fine—the chances of this being any more dangerous a situation than it seemed were nil or Wilson would be biting his nails in the surgical waiting area instead of sitting in his office staring tiredly at the wall—but it nagged him that this could've been prevented if House wasn't such a damn stubborn ass all the time. If he wasn't such a damn trickster.

All right, the joking about the ortho resident may have gone too far, Wilson had no trouble acknowledging that, and it hadn't helped House's petulance, but Wilson had been sure this was coming, sure he would hurt himself again, intentionally or not—it was House's luck.

It had happened during PT.

That much was clear.

Even Masterson knew it might happen. And they'd been watching him closely, but House had been his usual non-communicative self…and Wilson knew it would have eventually come up in a vitals check, but this was a time-sensitive matter.

He stood up and started pacing, kicking his trash can hard. It slammed against the wall and he kicked it again, denting the side. _Dammit, House!_ _'It hurts, I need to stop' is not enough to go on and damn you, you know it!_

"It hurts," House panted, "I need to stop." He groaned convincingly. "I'm not kidding."

"Where does it hurt?" Masterson asked calmly, almost incredulously.

"Where do you think!" House growled breathlessly.

Wilson shook his head. Five minutes into the session and House was already asking to stop. Masterson was going at a slow pace, too. He shook his head again: it wasn't fun, it was no picnic, he knew that, but it had to be done or House would start to lose mobility. The sooner they started, the stronger his muscles, tendons, and ligaments would be in the future. Strong ligaments and tendons, especially, would put off other joint injuries, which Wilson suspected were only a matter of time given the way House sometimes abused the remaining function he had in the limb and the fact that he almost never wore the knee brace he was supposed to wear any time he walked, but strong tissue would make healing faster and easier. House knew all of that too, much better than Wilson or Masterson ever could.

What everyone in the room also knew was that this was a thirty minute session, though it was only twenty minutes of actual work in the end, after breaks and complaining were factored in. More than that, not all of today's PT would be on House's right leg. House knew that, all of it, and he was _still_ trying to wimp out early. Wilson had crossed his arms and glared angrily at House for shooting himself in the foot with such alacrity and precision.

Looking back, maybe House had meant something else by 'it'. Maybe. He could've been trying to tell them then, but come on! How were they supposed to derive that from 'where do you think it hurts?' when the clear implication was 'my leg, you moron'! His chest would've been Wilson's guess if he was told to look for something else at that moment and dammit, that wasn't it. Obscenities ran through Wilson's mind and he kicked the trash can again. How were they supposed to know! He kicked the trash can once more and flipped back to the scene.

"Okay, House, we'll do the left leg for a while," Masterson said in his deep, calm voice.

"Left leg's fine," House panted, face flushed with effort, left hand gripping the sheets tightly, his right hand trying to flex itself out of habit. "Doesn't need any work."

"I know," Masterson said, "I know it is. You wouldn't tell me if wasn't. Hold up your leg at the thigh and move the joint vertically, okay? Don't tell me if it doesn't hurt and I won't do anything." He moved to the left side of the bed. "Five times, okay? Ten if you can."

"Wait, wait," House panted. "I need a break." He coughed hard and groaned, face pinched with pain. When he could speak again, he said, "Really."

Wilson exchanged a glance with Masterson. Was he faking? Didn't seem like it. Proceed firmly but exercise caution they concluded.

Masterson patted House's left foot. "Come on, House, you owe me ten. Let's go."

House groaned and turned his head away in displeasure.

"DVT?" Masterson said, picking up House's leg under the knee and flexing the joint carefully to test for tenderness, "that sound good? Another clot?"

House groaned as Masterson manipulated his leg, refusing to help out. Masterson moved his hand to House's calf and pushed against House's foot with his right hand. House let him push, still refusing to participate and grimacing.

Wilson saw Masterson's jaw clench. This was House's good leg, after all, and unless he was hiding something, it was fine and this was an easy exercise. So he was sulking. That was it.

"A little muscle atrophy?" Masterson continued, breathing angrily through his nose in a way that reminded Wilson of a bull. "That suit you?" He grunted in annoyance. "C'mon, man, you're not even pushing back! You gonna lie there and take it? You wanna be able to get up and walk around, don't you! Or you gonna put yourself in a wheelchair? Huh? You want that? Another clot? No walking anymore? Huh? You want that? C'mon!"

House kicked out hard, his foot slipping past Masterson's hand and connecting squarely with his gut. Masterson grunted and dropped House's leg. House glared defiantly at him.

"That's better," he said. "Gotta do everything the hard way, don'tcha, House."

"Fuck off," House breathed out. He tried to take a deep breath and coughed hard, instinctively grabbing his chest.

Wilson caught Masterson's eye: _give him a minute_.

Masterson turned his back on House to let him collect himself. "Is Arizona State still in this thing?" he asked no one in particular.

"They're playing Cal State Fullerton tonight," Wilson said. "Elimination game."

"Nice," Masterson said. "Alma mater's doing well this year." He glanced over his shoulder. "Who do you think's gonna win that one, House?"

"I'll put fifty on Cal State right now," House said, having regained his breath. He gave Masterson an extra dose of the death glare.

"Fifty?" Masterson said carefully picking up House's left leg again. "You don't sound too confident." He bent House's leg at the knee and held it up so that his calf was parallel to the flat bed: "Push."

House obeyed and Masterson pushed back, then House pushed harder. Wilson had seen this exercise done more times than he could possibly count and it normally produced curses, grunts, groans, and on bad days, screams, but it looked easy now. House's face showed concentration and effort but no pain. His left leg was fine.

"Make it a hundred," Masterson said, using two hands now.

"Two," House got out. He was pushing hard enough against Masterson's hands that Wilson saw Masterson's biceps bulge.

"Two's rich for me," Masterson said and decreased the force he was using, allowing House to kick at him again but controlling the trajectory and violence of the kick. Wilson knew he was being careful, mindful of House's other injuries, while still letting House blow off some steam.

He took House's leg under the knee again and lowered it to the bed. "Can't take a bet while I'm working on you anyway," he said. "Something about ethics."

He moved to his left to square himself with House's right leg. "Okay," he said, "same thing, but we're going to flex the joint this time."

He didn't ask if House was ready, picking up his leg under the knee very slowly and carefully instead. House made a pained noise and Wilson saw him tense automatically.

"One to ten, House, tell me how bad it is so I know what to do to help you," Masterson said and carefully moved House's lower right leg up and down to test and exercise the knee joint. "How stiff does it feel?"

House grunted hard, face contorted, chest heaving. "Huuurrtss," he gasped.

"I know, House, I know," Masterson said, not stopping. "Stiff?"

House grunted again, gasping, his face, neck, and part of his exposed chest turning red.

"Come on, I know you can give me a yes or no," Masterson said in the same barking drill instructor tone he always used on House, but Wilson could tell he was aware of how painful this was for House because he had decreased the range and momentum. "Yes or no?"

House made a strangled noise, faced etched with pain and covered with sweat.

"Okay, two more and we'll take a break," Masterson said shooting a glance at Wilson for confirmation. Wilson didn't say anything and Masterson did two more careful reps, then gently lay House's leg on the mattress. Both men gave him a moment to get his breath back.

Wilson thought hard, returning to that moment. Had he heard a slight wheeze in House's breathing then? Maybe. But he might be projecting what he knew now on to that memory. House had been coughing at that point in the session but it was a dry cough clearly associated with exertion. It was good for him to be coughing then anyway. He was supposed to still be clearing his lungs from surgery.

Suddenly Wilson realized that he had never given House a spirometer to force him to cough yesterday. Or today. Damn. That had no doubt contributed to the problem. He couldn't change the past, though. He pressed play on the scene in his mind again, scanning it for other clues.

"Stiff?" Masterson asked again.

House coughed some more, head turned away from Wilson and Masterson, hand resting on his chest. He swallowed and licked his lips. Wilson took that as his cue to fetch a cup of water. Masterson hung by the foot of the bed watching House with his arms crossed over his chest and a glowering expression on his face.

House held a hand up when Wilson offered him the water—_give me a minute_—and coughed again. He rubbed his chest carefully and Wilson got a straw for the water.

House coughed and struggled to prop himself up on his right elbow, wincing as moved. He took the water, still breathing fast and hard.

"Not too bad," he said and sipped the water.

"Easier going down or coming up?" Masterson asked.

House took another sip of water. Wilson could tell he was trying to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth to regulate his oxygen intake but his nose was still packed with wads of cotton and it wasn't working very well.

"About the same both ways," House said.

"Then what was so bad that you wouldn't answer my question?" Masterson said in a tone that managed to be flippant and calming at the same time. "Or were you moping?"

"It's sore," House said angrily. He tried to lower himself down gently but the strain on his muscles was too much and he fell the last inch or two, hitting the mattress hard enough to make him smother a yelp.

Wilson and Masterson both found something else to look at for the next few seconds, giving House what space they could until they heard his pants regularize.

"_I'm_ sore," House said through quick breaths, "all of me, and this tablet pain killer bullshit is not helping." He closed his eyes. Wilson could see him trying to relax and failing, looking tired and pained instead. He was about as miserable as Wilson had ever seen him.

Wilson caught Masterson's eye.

"Okay, House, that's enough for today," Masterson said. He started toward the door, turned, and pointed a large index finger at House. "But we're going to do two sessions tomorrow."

House didn't dignify him with so much as a grunt. This had been a bad session.

Wilson and Masterson had another non-verbal in which Wilson approved the two sessions and absolved him of any harm done. Inadequate pain management…well, they'd both seen it happen to House before. Doubt always glimmered on the edge of reason, though. Was House really just a junkie with great acting skills? He could manipulate anyone to do anything, they both knew that; the only question was, _was he doing that now?_ This came up every time House was intent on being bullheaded, meaning that it came up fairly often.

"How long do I have to lie here and not ask before you do something?" House said tiredly.

Wilson's head snapped up and he realized House was breathing normally now and Masterson was long gone.

"Were you faking earlier?" he asked with cautious curiosity. Nothing in his voice was threatening, but House always felt threatened after PT.

House grunted something akin to a bitter laugh. "If I tell you yes, I'd be lying, and if I tell you no, you'll think I'm lying." He barked a bitter laugh again. "I can't win."

"Give me a number," Wilson prodded.

"Numbers," House said. "I'm so sick of numbers."

He shifted uncomfortably. Wilson saw that he'd started to shake.

"This is beyond numbers." He twisted his upper body away from Wilson. "I can't give you one…so just go away."

Wilson stood.

House must have heard him and misinterpreted what he planned to do because he added, "Kill the tv on your way out. I can't reach the remote."

Wilson did as he was told and left for the drug lockup.

It was normal for House to withdraw after PT. He always did. He became a moody, cranky, spiteful beast who snapped at anyone stupid enough to wander within biting distance of his cage. His mood would wear off in a few hours, probably after he got some sleep. PT was always taxing, always tiring; it always caused pain or anger, usually both. House was sulking; that wasn't new. What concerned Wilson was his body language and his sudden disinterest in receiving more pain meds. He was more than just pissed off.

Wilson made a note on House's chart—he had to try very hard to avoid writing the words 'stubborn' and 'ass' or 'insufferable prick' next to the note—and drew 25 milligrams of Demerol. Cuddy wouldn't be too pleased but House obviously needed something. The only time he was unresponsive like this was when he was in pain and his pain was being ignored. It pissed him off so much he finally shut up; either that or it hurt too much to talk. Usually it was both. Wilson had seen this happen after PT many times. It wasn't depression; House didn't withdraw verbally when he was depressed: he attacked; he hid the problem. He was rude, he was mean, he was impossible to be around, but he never asked for the television to be turned off; he never asked Wilson to do things for him. He did the opposite: he stared harder at the television and become more involved in plotlines; he went out of his way to do things he couldn't do that went far and above reaching for the remote. Quite simply, he didn't _do this_ when he was angry or upset or unhappy: he only did this when he was in pain.

By the time he got back to the room, House had somehow managed to turn on to his right side, his right leg bent slightly at the knee and left leg bent at a sharper angle, stuff one of his pillows between his legs, tangle himself up in the bedclothes so much that half of them were spilling on to the floor, and drape his left arm over his face so that he looked utterly miserable in addition to looking really uncomfortable.

"Go away," he groaned after Wilson had slid the door shut.

"That doesn't look comfortable," Wilson observed mildly.

"It is," House said, his voice muffled by the arm thrown over his face. "My back's killing me."

Wilson wordlessly got another pillow out of the wardrobe and stuffed it behind House's back. He noticed House was shivering: goose bumps had erupted on his exposed leg.

"Cold?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Go away," House said again, not moving.

"Okay, you're not cold," Wilson said tugging at the pillow between House's legs, trying to pry it out so he could cover House with the blanket and let him put the pillow between his knees under the covers, "forget I said anything."

"Quit," House said and clamped his left leg down. He yelped at the pressure the action put on his right leg and spat out a litany of curses. "Will you leave already?" he finally got out when he'd stopped panting and cursing. He glared wildly at Wilson.

"Brought you something," Wilson said now that he had House's attention. He pulled the syringe out of his pocket. "Booster."

House grunted and fixed his attention on the glass partition keeping him from the rest of the hospital.

"Okay, you don't want it, that's fine," Wilson said and put it back in his pocket.

House sighed angrily: an act of contrition from House if there ever was one.

Wilson was moving for the syringe again when House yelled out in frustration, "What do you want!"

"Nothing," Wilson said, putting his hand gently on the pillow. "Lift your leg a little. I'm going to move this."

"Need it for support," House hissed. Yelling had clearly taken the wind out of him, along with the anger.

"Just for a second," Wilson said calmly, "and I'll put it back."

House drooped in exasperation and let Wilson take the pillow and cover him with the blankets he'd tangled himself up in. He gave House the pillow, lifted the blankets, and looked away. House angrily stuffed the pillow between his legs again and Wilson let the blankets go.

"There," Wilson said, unable to contain his frustration now, "we had to fight over _that_?"

"I didn't _ask_ you to do _anything_," House growled. "Leave. Me. Alone."

Wilson pulled the syringe out of his pocket again and waved it so House could see it.

"So you really don't want this?" Wilson said in a flat, disbelieving, yet still confrontational voice. "None of that hurt. You weren't cold. You want to suffer."

"Why do you always do this?" House asked vacantly, staring at the glass wall. "Why can't you just leave like everyone else?"

"You've tried _much_ harder than this to get rid of me before," Wilson said.

"It's my fault you've got skin like a rhinoceros?" House said. "Take the fucking hint!"

But House's words were undercut by the fact that he was shaking harder now, breathing shortly and quickly, and couldn't keep lines of pain off of his face. His body was betraying him again. Wilson knew that would _really_ piss him off.

"You know why," he said in a low voice.

"Can't bear to leave me alone, can you?" House said bitterly. "Afraid the cripple might hurt himself. And then you'd feel guilty."

"You're gonna have to do better than that," Wilson said. "I work in the most dramatic specialty there is—this is a regular day for me."

"Oh _that's_ why you put up with me," House said. "It makes you _noble_ so you don't feel bad when you go and cheat on your wife."

"And suffering is what entitles you to be a complete asshole all the time," Wilson said as if reciting something from rote memorization. "We've been over this before. It always ends with you taking whatever it is I'm offering because you need it and that's what you can't stand, the idea that you need something, so fine." He extended his hand, offering House the syringe. "You don't need it. You don't need anything or anyone. You're not in pain. Take it and throw it across the room if it'll soothe your pride."

House's jaw clenched but he didn't move to take it. He would've had to twist around and reach awkwardly with his left hand for it anyway: Wilson was still at his back.

Wilson curled his fingers around the syringe again. "You don't need it. You don't have to _need_ it when you want it and I know you want it," he said calmly. "I know you'll try to bite my hand when I give it to you, but you want it."

"What I _want_ is for you to leave me the hell alone," House snarled.

Wilson extended his hand again. "Take it," he said, calmer now. "Throw it across the room. Squirt it on the floor. Whatever. I know you need it, you know you need it, and we both know no one else is going to bring you anything stronger than two aspirin right now, so you can take it and do what you want with it or I can give it to you. Whatever you want."

"Yeah and if I don't do what _you_ want me to do, you get to beat yourself up and I'm the bad guy," House said. "This is such a circle jerk."

"There is no bad guy in a circle jerk," Wilson pointed out.

House ground his teeth, jaw muscle working under a bruise that was starting to yellow around the edges.

Wilson could see him thinking. _That's right_, Wilson thought, _tell yourself you're doing it for me, to spare my conscience_.

The post-PT brawl was perhaps the only time he could out-maneuver House, but most of the time he'd rather lose the fight because most of the time he won and House was a very, _very_ sore loser. It felt something like kicking Superman in the groin after he'd been weakened by kryptonite and was trying to get to his feet. Wilson didn't consider himself Lex Luthor material, but in the weird logical circle jerk—if such a thing could exist—that followed PT, he was always the bad guy.

Why did what was essentially a self-sacrificial act on House's part make him feel like crap? Probably because it was one of those parts of House's logic only made sense to House.

House still hadn't said anything: acquiescence.

Wilson saw him stiffen when he touched the blanket to move it, but House let him proceed unhindered.

"I was going to let you pick which side you wanted it on but it looks like you've already done that for me," Wilson said.

"You just want to get a look at my ass," House muttered into the pillow.

"That is my standard m.o.," Wilson said.

Wilson had just swabbed the area and was ready to start the injection when House spoke again: "You _have_ to stick me in the ass?" he grumbled.

"You know how addictive this stuff is," Wilson said. "Little sting."

"Poor excuse," House muttered. He glanced at Wilson. "Shouldn't you be wearing gloves?" he hissed.

"Sue me," Wilson said. House snorted, then Wilson saw his muscles tense and his left hand curl around the edge of the bed. "Relax."

"Burns like hell," House said through his teeth.

"Almost finished," Wilson said. "Baby." He couldn't resist tagging that on.

"Shut up," House said with another hiss. "Stings."

"You're saying the treatment's worse than the disease?" Wilson said. If this were any other patient, he'd rub the muscle right now to ease the burn. He'd also be wearing gloves.

"Until this stuff kicks in and my ass stops seizing, yes, I am saying just that," House grumbled.

Wilson sniffed a laugh, stuck a band aid on him, and gave him his dignity back in gown form.

"Ow," House said, eyes tracking Wilson across the room as he disposed of the syringe and other used supplies. "It really does hurt." He rubbed his hip.

"You'll be singing a different tune in a few minutes," Wilson said. "Make it something by Aerosmith while you're still sober enough to take requests."

House snorted. "How about 'Janie's Got a Gun'?" he said, moving his left arm so it fell across the bed and turned his shoulders inward. Wilson didn't think that could possibly be comfortable. "Call it a prophecy for your next marriage."

_Nice_, Wilson thought as he sat down in his usual seat. Their fight was history now.

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'Love in an Elevator'," he said picking up House's iPod and turning it over in his hands. "But if you're not familiar with that one…"

"Oh not cool," House said, "kicking a guy after you shoot him in the ass."

"Speaking of," Wilson said, "some tanning butter might increase your chances of making it in an elevator."

"I take more than the five seconds between floors one and two even on a bad day," House said.

"Elevators come with a 'stop' button for a reason," Wilson said.

"Do you keep condoms in your lab coat now?" House asked. "The super condoms from the drug rep? Penicillin built in to cure syphilis where it breeds?"

"She keeps giving them to me," Wilson said with a shrug. "I don't get to send many of my patients home with condoms. What else am I supposed to do with them?"

"You work in the clinic," House pointed out. "Everyone down there should get one for being stupid enough to come in in the first place as a consolation prize because if they're stupid enough to come to the clinic for a cold, odds are they don't know very much about shrink-wrapping a shrinky-dink."

"Only you rant when you're high," Wilson said. "And it's only a consolation prize if you yell at them first, which most of us manage not to do."

"But you want to," House said. "I know you all want to." He paused. "Twenty-five intramuscular isn't going to get me high."

"Has it kicked in yet?" Wilson asked with a snort.

"My ass has stopped burning," House said stupidly.

"Has it really stopped burning or have you stopped caring whether it's on fire or not?" Wilson said.

"Shut up," House said, but his eyes were starting to glaze and he'd relaxed visibly.

Wilson turned his attention to House's iPod again. He'd toyed with it off and on last night while House had alternately slept, cursed, stared at the ceiling, and begged silently for more meds. He hadn't been able to do much with it. His brother had always been the one who took electronic devices apart as a kid and tried to put them back together. He was the engineer in the family. Or he had been. He was probably pretty good at stealing and selling electronics by now. He hadn't been caught as far as Wilson knew. Not in New Jersey at least. He was probably in Philly. Maybe Trenton. Maybe New York. Wilson didn't know and he didn't dwell. He'd tried for years to change his brother's life. His parents had tried. His other brother had tried. He felt like they'd done all they could with him. His brother simply hadn't wanted to be helped.

The parallels were there between his brother and House. It hadn't taken Wilson too long to recognize that. And he had recognized it years before the infarction. It wasn't about drugs or addictive tendencies. House shared a similar personality with his brother; they were both driven to perfection and often unsatisfied with the status quo. His brother hadn't been brilliant. He also hadn't been an only child like House. His family hadn't moved all the time like House's family had when he was a kid. House didn't have a goody-goody brother who won science awards and brought wounded animals home or a quiet, studious, sometimes distant brother destined for a quiet, studious life with a nice woman and two and a half kids to make him the rebel of the family by default. He was the middle brother but because Wilson was the baby of the family and closer to him than to his oldest brother had been when they were kids, he would always be the big brother. His brother might not have gotten enough attention as a kid and his temperament predisposed him to act out or some crap like that. House didn't have the best relationship with his family but at least his mother and father knew if he was alive or dead. Of course to Wilson's father, his second son _was _dead. His mother still asked if he'd heard anything nearly every time he went home but he didn't get home very often. When he didn't go home for a while, she would whisper the question nervously over the phone.

House wouldn't end up on the streets, though. That's where this train of thought was taking him. That's where this train of thought had taken him innumerable times before. Wilson acknowledged that one of the reasons he'd been drawn to House initially was because House reminded him of his brother—of who his brother might have been if he hadn't been this or that. Wilson didn't know why House kept him around. Probably something to do with the fact that even he got lonely.

Wilson turned the iPod over in his hands and looked up. House had fallen asleep on his side. He didn't look very comfortable, but if he'd managed to fall asleep, Wilson wasn't going to wake him up to tell him to roll over. He stood up, stretched, and left to talk to Cuddy.

Standing cross-armed in his office, dented trash can at his feet, he paused his memory. If he'd woken House up to roll him over then…would anything have…? No. Nothing would have changed. Probably not. It was highly unlikely… Based on what came next…no, nothing would've changed. If he'd stayed in the room, maybe then…might have caught it sooner…but it was hard to tell.

Wilson kicked the trash can again hard. He should've stayed with House today. _Kick._ Should've stayed with his brother in eight grade, kept him from leaving the house that day. _Kick_. Should've encouraged him to try harder when college became difficult. _Kick_. Should've tried to talk to him when he was in college himself and his brother was working as an auto mechanic and had started skipping shifts. _Kick_. Should've gone to see him more often when he was in med school and his parents called asking if he knew where his brother was. _Kick kick kick_.

His sighed angrily, hands on his hips. What happened to his brother probably wasn't preventable. What happened to House today fell in about the same category, though they were miles apart in terms of consequences. House would be fine. His brother on the other hand…

Michael, he told himself. Michael. Mikey, Jimmy, and Davy. He hadn't seen David in three or four years. And Michael…

And his surrogate brother. Who would be fine. Who had no brothers. Or sisters. Or anyone.

Wilson sighed again. In his mind, he always could have caught this earlier.

* * *

:begs: So? 


	19. Deja Vu All Over Again

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N:** And now the not-so-thrilling conclusion! Thanks for all the reviews (so _suspense_ is what gets you guys to make a comment…hmm…). I really, really appreciate them. Ducks in the next chapter! Big props to my beta, Auditrix, for helping me sort out the medical stuff. I worship reviews!

Revision: Alley - Thanks for setting me straight on the whereabouts of chili dogs in the Princeton-Plainsboro area. I've never been past DC on the Eastern seaboard sadly. Cheers!

* * *

**Chapter 17 Part 3: Déjà Vu All Over Again**

"Dr. Wilson?"

It was one of the night nurses. He didn't know her.

"They're done. You can see him now."

Wilson nodded, rubbed his forehead, and stood up.

He'd finally taken himself to the waiting area when someone had shown up at his door half an hour ago to investigate the noise he was making. It had turned out to be one of _his_ night nurses, but he'd started getting sympathetic looks from his staff this morning—everyone working this weekend knew by now that something had happened to House and their friendship was certainly no secret, so he was being treated like a family member was injured—and all she did was give him another sympathetic look and let him be with his kicked-in trash can. He'd gone to the waiting area after that: he was out of trash cans to beat up in his office.

He'd called Cuddy earlier and he would call her again when House was back in the room. She'd been surprised and concerned. Of course. He'd convinced her that she didn't need to come back for this. But she'd been very surprised and very concerned.

One thing after another—neither of them had seen this coming. House didn't deserve this. And the way it had happened so suddenly. House had been fine a few hours ago—sulking, yes, but physically well enough that he was trying to break out of his room and go home—and now…this?

He followed the nurse even though he knew this floor as intimately as he knew every floor; he wasn't fit to lead himself right now.

How quickly everything had gone downhill.

When he got back to the room over an hour after giving House space to sleep off the post PT-sulk, he found him staring blankly at the wall, still lying in that uncomfortable-looking position his right side. If he'd moved at all in the interim, Wilson couldn't tell. The television was still off. House seemed to be in another world, his eyes bright despite the shadowed room.

"House?" Wilson said, wondering if this was a ruse of some kind.

House didn't move or answer. Wilson was wary. House couldn't have slipped off and left a life-size replica of himself in an hour and a half…could he?

"You okay?" he asked. He turned on the lamp and looked closer. "You haven't been licking toads, have you?"

"No toads," House rasped out. Wilson caught the ghost of a smile. "Just can't sleep."

Talking seemed to take an effort. He was obviously tired but Wilson didn't think this was part of the sulkfest. Now he was worried.

"Pain bothering you?" he asked gently, assuming his seat.

"It's not too bad," House answered vacantly.

"What's wrong then?" Wilson asked, the kind, friendly, 'I'm a nice doctor' tone he used with his regular patients in his voice.

"Just tired," House replied quietly, still staring blankly ahead.

House was giving him straight answers: something was wrong. Wilson tapped the call button and looked even more closely at House. Red around his eyes, even the bruised one, and they were gleaming brightly. The tips of his ears were flushed. He was breathing slowly and shallowly through his mouth. Not hard to diagnose, even for a first year med student.

"How long have you had fever?" Wilson asked nonchalantly.

"Dunno," House replied calmly. "A while."

"How long has it been this high?"

"Dunno," House said, still staring absently at the wall. "How long were you gone?"

"Hour and a half," Wilson said. "Did you sleep at all?"

"A little while," House said.

"And you were like this when you woke up?"

"Yep," House said.

"Why didn't you call someone?" Wilson asked.

"Didn't want to be bothered," House said.

"So you were waiting for me to come back and figure it out?" Wilson asked.

"Wasn't waiting," House said. "Just lying here."

This was perhaps the strangest conversation he'd ever had with House.

"You sound like you're in shock," he observed. "Are you in shock?"

"Doubt it," House said.

"Then why are you answering my questions?" Wilson asked.

"Path of least resistance," House answered.

"This is new," Wilson said.

"I'm tired," House said. "I want to be left alone."

A nurse opened the door and Wilson asked for a vitals check. She disappeared to collect a thermometer.

He stood up and went round the bed, pulling his stethoscope out of his pocket. Good thing he'd put his lab coat on earlier and had it with him.

"Sorry," he said, "you're not going to like this."

He rubbed the business end against his shirt to warm it up out of habit: House's chest was still wrapped in bandages to support his ribs and he wouldn't feel the cold metal anyway, but House's behavior was unnerving him and his common sense was going out the window.

"Breathe in," Wilson said, listening for what he knew must be there.

House didn't obey, continuing to breathe shallowly.

"House," Wilson warned. "Come on."

House didn't say anything.

"You knew this was coming," Wilson said. "You wouldn't have answered my questions if you didn't want this taken care of."

Rationality always got House in the end. Now was the time when he'd whine something childish. But still he said nothing. Wilson couldn't see his face but he was breathing regularly: no change in his mental status. Why wasn't he answering? Just being a hard ass or was the fever higher than he thought?

"House?" Wilson said.

"What," House replied.

"Breathe in," Wilson said. "C'mon," he coaxed. "Just once."

House still didn't follow Wilson's instruction.

Wilson sighed. "I'm going to start tapping if you don't do this," he threatened. "That'll _make_ you cough and you really won't like it."

House finally did as he was told and Wilson heard what he expected to hear: wet, labored crackling. Infection. A very mean infection from the sound of things. He also heard House trying to suppress the cough that deep breathing brought on, keeping the cough buried in his chest.

"Uh huh," Wilson said with a cluck in his voice. "And how long have you been doing that?"

House didn't answer.

Wilson put the stethoscope away and went back around the bed. House kept staring at the wall.

"Since I left?" Wilson asked.

House didn't move or answer.

"Before PT?" Wilson said.

House said nothing.

"Since lunch?" Wilson prodded.

Still nothing.

"Before that?" Wilson said, exasperation leaking into his voice.

The nurse came back before Wilson could make any more threats and offered House an oral thermometer. House took it with his left hand and stuck it under his tongue.

_Oh_, Wilson thought. So this was still part post-PT sulk: it wasn't all whatever strain of pneumonia House had managed to pick up. Good.

"104.1," the nurse said.

House had a goofy look on his face at her announcement.

"Don't smile," Wilson said, both annoyed at House for keeping it to himself and happy that he was with it enough to be silly. He couldn't stop himself from grinning at any sign that House was all right, though. "It's not an accomplishment."

House's look got goofier but he extended his left arm to have his pulse and blood pressure taken without being asked.

77. 103 over 70. Consistent.

Wilson stood and spoke quietly to the nurse: "Get a sputum culture with Gram stain, blood cultures, urinalysis, culture and sensitivity, PA and lateral chest x-rays, and give him 800 milligrams ibuprofen, up his IV to 100 ccs per hour, two liters humidified oxygen, get a pulse ox and titrate the oxygen to 97. Unpack his nose too."

"Throw in the kitchen sink while you're at it," House mumbled and smothered a cough, chest sinking in. When it had passed, he flung his left arm over his face again to block out the lamp light that was hitting his face.

Wilson exchanged a look with the nurse: House had gotten himself into trouble again. Real trouble. She was sympathetic. Wilson was fairly certain that this was the nurse House had yelled at yesterday over putting a pillow under his leg. Before they'd found the ACL problem. That was only last night? It seemed to Wilson that much more than a mere twenty-four hours had passed…but, jeez, only forty-eight hours ago House had been fine: no overdose, no fight, no trouble at all. If he'd gone home instead of going out, how different things would be right now. Wilson shook himself inwardly, realizing the nurse was waiting for something.

"That'll do for now," Wilson said to her. She nodded and left.

Wilson looked at House again. He was sweating and shivering, forearm covering his eyes. The light must be bothering him.

He turned the lamp off and paused to clap House on the shoulder gently, violating the unspoken 'no touching' rule. He hadn't been able to resist; House looked so awful. And besides, House was too dazed to mind much anyway, he reasoned.

"We'll have you feeling better soon," Wilson said. He returned to his seat and leaned to his left to put himself in House's line of sight. "Want to turn on your back? You don't look very comfortable."

"Nah," House said faintly, his eyes glassy with a classic not-quite-there vacancy. "You'll just make me roll over again when you want something coughed up."

Wilson sighed. "I know," he said. "It sucks." He poured a fresh cup of water.

"Should've said something when you first noticed it," he flung a hand in the air, "whenever it was you noticed it. Before you spiked a temp." He held the cup up. "Want some of this?"

"No," House said with a sigh. "You're turning up the fluids. Same difference."

"It's better this way," Wilson said indicating to the cup. "You know it."

"I'm tired," House groaned from under his forearm. "I want to sleep."

"I know," Wilson said sympathetically. "Couple of tests and we'll leave you alone."

House wiped the sweat off of his face and coughed carefully, shifting his gaze to meet Wilson's.

"'A couple' is two or three," he pointed out. "Two for most people; three for the less inhibited section of the population; but even the Mormons would bat an eye at your definition of 'a couple'."

"Yeah," Wilson said. "I know. But I'm not the one who kept his mouth shut when he felt his lungs start crackling."

House merely shrugged half-heartedly, moving his left arm to protect his chest.

"All right," Wilson said, clapping his hands against his thighs in a 'let's get down to business' way. "Any order you prefer to do this in?"

House glanced at him briefly. "Giving me the illusion of choice?" he said. He went back to staring at the wall, but his expression wasn't as blank as it had been. Rather, he looked like he'd just been condemned to die. Or suffer through a few annoying tests.

"Doesn't hurt to try," Wilson said with a shrug in his voice.

"It's meaningless," House said tiredly.

"Makes most people feel better," Wilson pointed out.

"You know that's fundamen—" he stopped and pressed a hand against his chest, trying to swallow a cough, "fundamentally untenable. Remember who you're talking to."

Wilson shrugged. "Can't fault me for trying."

House had no snappy comeback this time either, but Wilson thought he was doing pretty well considering how bad he looked. This was another of those times when House wouldn't admit to feeling like crap—when he, Wilson, had to guess what was wrong. Wilson reckoned it was equal parts despondence, annoyance, fever, and hypoxia.

"How's the pain?" Wilson asked.

House laughed carefully, running a hand over his forehead and leaving it there to shade his eyes. _From what?_ Wilson thought. The lamp was off and the room dim: only afternoon sunlight from the window and light from the hall was coming in.

"Between the dope and the heat, I'm not really feeling it," House said.

"Yeah, you are really messed up right now," Wilson said.

He offered House the cup of water again. House glanced at it, then back at the wall: _no_.

"Really messed up even by your standards," Wilson said placing the cup back on the table.

House sniffed. On a different day, that would have been a snort. He was trying hard not to start coughing, Wilson could tell. He could see patches of sweat on House's gown despite the lack of light: the predictably sizable patch under his arm and a thick line on his stomach where he'd been resting his left arm against his chest. Wilson made a note to tell the nurses to change the bandages supporting his ribs soon. They were soaked through no doubt. House had really done a number on himself yet again. _Why? Why wait, why hide it?_

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Wilson asked in a tone that managed to be disapproving, disbelieving, and curious at the same time. "Why didn't you call a nurse and tell her you felt bad or get someone to call me?"

"I dunno," House said, words muffled slightly by the hand on his face. "If we sat here and pulled Freud and the rest of the century's worth of psychoanalysis out, we could probably find an explanation, but I doubt it would be true."

"No idea?" Wilson said leaning back in the chair. "Really?"

House sighed a little as if seriously considering the question. "If I knew…" he stopped and glanced at Wilson. "Hey, is this another 'extract a confession from your friend while he's drugged' thing?"

"Yeah," Wilson said. "Normally it works really well."

"Normally you don't use narcotics," House pointed out.

"The cafeteria didn't get your memo about putting domestic beer on tap?" Wilson asked.

"I sent it, like, four times," House said, moving his left arm again to protect his chest. "Even carbon copied it to Cuddy and Nutrition. They can't—" he stopped a cough, "can't ignore me forever."

"I think they can actually," Wilson said. "They'll certainly win the patience battle."

"Most people underestimate how annoying I can be when I really want something done," House said.

"You're preachin' to the choir," Wilson said.

Wilson saw his left leg shift under the covers and remembered that House's back was bothering him. Lying more or less flat on your back for two days straight would do that, he mused, especially to the lower back. He made another mental note to line up a massage.

"Yeah," House acknowledged. "So the Demerol gravy train is coming to an end at last."

"'Fraid so," Wilson said.

"And you and Cuddy are gonna go Mengele on me until I…what am I supposed to do, exactly?"

"Until we can find something that works for you and doesn't contain acetaminophen…" Wilson trailed off with a slight shrug.

"So I can start shooting up morphine and you'd be fine with that," House said, slightly bemused.

"If you can do your job on a heavy narcotic like that…okay, no, I don't think either of us would be fine with that," Wilson admitted, throwing up his hands.

"Because I'd like it too much," House charged.

"Because you probably wouldn't be able to walk straight much less think straight," Wilson pointed out.

"You're saying I usually think straight?" he said with a slight smile.

"Point taken," Wilson said. "You know, if you'd just use a pair of crutches every now and then, reduce the strain on your muscles—it would help. Maybe it's not as sexy as a cane—not nearly as phallic—but at the end of the day if it reduces your drug intake for muscle aches…"

"If I weren't ripped right now, you know I'd slug you just for suggesting that, right?" House said, his red-lined eyes and the goofy look on his face undercutting his words.

"Your reflexes have gotten slower," Wilson said with a shrug. "I'm sure I could duck another punch, but if you want to jam your hand again, be my guest."

House let him have that one. Wilson could tell he was tired; this conversation would be much livelier on any other day.

Wilson continued: "High dose ibuprofen would work—probably much better than acetaminophen has—but it would tear up your stomach again and that was just so much fun the first time, yeah, I really want it to happen again." He gave House a vaguely disapproving look. "We can't follow you around and make sure you take every dose with food."

"So you're throwing crap like Neurontin at me instead," House said, draping his left arm over his face again. "That makes total sense."

"Give it a chance," Wilson said. "It might do something for you. You'll be off your feet for a while and that will greatly reduce the muscle aches…then all you need is something to kill the nerve pain. Neurontin is very good for nerve pain."

"When it works," House sniffed disdainfully. "Vicodin was a great one-two punch. Something for the muscles, something for the nerves. Wonder drug."

"Except that your liver, as impressively as it's held up to date, just can't process that much poison," Wilson said.

House moved his arm to his chest again. "You know that telling me things I already know tends to piss me off," he said.

Wilson shrugged. "Apparently you suffer from selective memory loss."

"Terrible disorder," House said, fighting a cough that was building in his chest. "Responsible for most of the happiness in the world. Terrible, terrible. Must be stopped immediately before it spreads—" he lost the battle this time, coughing hard into his hand, muttering curses when it finally stopped.

Wilson looked away while House righted himself. His face was flushed heavily when Wilson finally looked back. This was ridiculous. Tests, get the tests.

"Okay," Wilson said, "let's get these tests, figure out which bug is chewing your lungs up, and hit it hard with antibiotics. Get to work on a urine sample. I'll get you a kit and some ibuprofen."

House grunted and Wilson went to the nurses' station. Short wait, meds ready. House eagerly sat up and took the plastic cup Wilson offered him this time, swallowing the pills with a healthy swig of water.

Wilson offered him the kit. "Urine sample?" he asked.

House merely looked at him and lay back down. "I don't need to pee right now," he said. "I just went. Before you showed up…I mean, before you showed up earlier, not when you came back just now."

"How long before?" Wilson asked, tipping his head up as if looking over House would somehow give him a glance at the urinal. He put the kit on the bedside table.

"Not sure," House said. "Sample might still be viable. I'm not going to stop you from checking it out. But I think it was…half an hour, forty-five minutes before you got here, so you'll probably have to wait a while until I've got another one ready for you."

Wilson raised his eyebrows: _oh really?_

House caught his meaning. "No way man," he said, "you're not cathing me. No way." Wilson saw him swallow a cough. "This one can wait," he wheezed, face red.

"You're not doing yourself any favors keeping that in," Wilson observed.

"Duh," House wheezed, swallowing another cough.

"Okay," Wilson said standing, "we'll put that one off until you're ready. Radiology should be about ten minutes getting here. As much as I hate to do it, I've got to go rat you out to Cuddy now."

"You just don't want to be here for the messy part," House said.

"And I don't want to be here for the messy part," Wilson echoed going to the door.

"Take me with you?" House asked. He wasn't begging, no, but Wilson discerned a distinctly plaintive note in his voice.

"You'd rather see Cuddy than…" Wilson said pausing at the door, eyebrows raised.

House shrugged his left shoulder awkwardly. "Be sure to tell her I paid her a compliment," he said. "Five minutes with her is better than coughing up green crap. But not by much. If the crap were yellow, say, or rust-colored..."

Wilson waved a dismissive hand, sticking his head out the door. "I think I see a phlebotomist coming down the hall," Wilson said.

"Vampires," House muttered.

"Double score," Wilson said and turned to House, "those orderlies look familiar. Radiology's moving fast today."

"Ice cold metal, sitting up straight, hold your breath, now breathe out, quit coughing, oh joy," House mumbled. He shivered, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

"Be good," Wilson admonished. "I'll get them to change the wrap on your ribs and get you a new gown."

House groaned into the pillow. "_This_ is why I didn't say anything," he said and started coughing hard, curling up under the blanket.

"Did yourself a ton of favors, didn't you," Wilson said as he left.

_Yeah, a whole ton of favors_, he thought wryly as he sat next to House in the recovery area. _A whole ton_.

He considered that as miserable as House looked a few hours ago before he was taken to x-ray, he looked worse now. It was the blood loss, Wilson imagined. He hadn't lost very much but with all of his other problems, a little blood loss went a long way. He was still anesthetized and Wilson understood that it might be a little longer than usual before he woke up. His body had taken a serious beating, first Friday, then yesterday, and again today. Wilson hoped this was the end of a long string of complications.

"Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson looked up. Vincent. General surgery. He'd been on the committee that hired Vincent a few years ago. Vincent had his hand held out.

Wilson stood up and shook it, "Dr. Vincent," he said.

"The surgery went well," Vincent said. "Did one of our people sew him up before?"

"No," Wilson said. "The first surgery took place at Princeton General."

"Well, whoever did it didn't do a very good job," Vincent said. "Sloppy. The first surgery wasn't laparoscopic either. We were all surprised by that. The tears weren't bad per se but they will set his recovery back a few days. Otherwise, the tissue looks healthy and it had started healing well. He'll have a hard time tearing these but try to keep him from exerting himself anyway."

"Thanks," Wilson said.

"The anesthesiologist will be out to talk to you soon and see that he wakes up in a timely manner," Vincent said. "She was very conservative, but it's difficult when the patient has so many complications to begin with."

Wilson nodded and they shook hands again.

"Thanks," Wilson repeated.

Vincent left and Wilson returned to the stool next to House's gurney in the recovery area.

House was still really out of it.

He shook his head. This had snowballed into something really awful.

He thought back to earlier. The chest x-ray had probably made the bleed worse too. Damn. The transfer from the bed to the gurney to the table and back probably made the bleed worse and if House had noticed it, well, his track record for mentioning pain was less than spectacular today, and honestly, Wilson was having trouble blaming him right now. After all, they _had_ caught it in time.

He'd been talking to Cuddy while House was in radiology. He detoured to the cafeteria to pick up some drinks and was going to check with the nurses about whether House was in his room, but he didn't have to. He smiled wryly, drinks in hand: he could hear House coughing two rooms down.

When he entered the room, he saw that the bed had been moved so House could sit forward easily to reach the pink bowl in his lap. The cotton in his nose was gone, replaced by an oxygen cannula, and a pulse ox monitor graced his left forefinger again. He was coughing hard, gasping in between coughs, and his face was red and dripping with sweat, but Wilson imagined that if he hadn't been hacking his lungs up at that moment, his face would still be red: he was obviously pissed off. Wilson winced sympathetically as he settled into his chair and dumped the drinks on the bedside table.

"If you—told them—to give me—an expectorant—I'm going—to kick—your ass—so hard—" he sputtered and coughed something vile up, pausing for a moment and glancing so meanly in Wilson's direction that Wilson sensed he was about to be spat upon and got ready to bolt. House spat harmlessly in the bowl instead and glared at Wilson again.

"It's easier than having your lungs vacuumed out," Wilson observed.

"Easy for you to say," House said with a wheeze and wiped his mouth.

"If you're coughing up that much phlegm, you probably _were_ on the verge of having your lungs vacuumed out, so consider this a close shave," Wilson said sternly.

"Shut up," House said. "You better have brought me a hit of Dilaudid or something else really good…like a Swedish supermodel. Someone really fine," he coughed again, "no hablo ingles, jag snacket inte Engelsk."

"But if you speak her language, what's the point…?" Wilson said. He opened the carton of orange juice and passed it to House.

"I forget," House said, taking the carton and draining half of it in one gulp.

"Lovely shade of green," Wilson remarked casually.

"Oh yeah," House said, trying to wrinkle his nose at the bowl in his lap and failing because his face was still too bruised to move correctly.

"Pneumococcal," Wilson said.

"Care to put a wager on that?" House said, swigging the juice again.

"Hmm, green sputum, rapid progression, chills, _and_ it's the most common form—why, I'd be an idiot to take that bet, Dr. House," Wilson said with a hard look.

"Sarcastic today," House muttered and started coughing hard again. Wilson winced sympathetically at the sound coming from his chest. Whatever he'd picked up, it was extremely virulent. And if he'd mentioned it even an hour earlier…

"I'm beginning to understand why idiocy makes you so angry," Wilson said giving him a significant look. He was also beginning to understand why Cuddy yelled at House so often.

House rolled his eyes and finished the orange juice. Wilson took the empty carton and handed him an open bottle of apple juice.

"So, if I'm you for today, shall I assume that this is a resistant strain and hit it with Vancomycin—or, better yet, a Vancomycin/Levaquin cocktail—or go the tried and true Penicillin route and wait on the cultures?" Wilson said.

"Is this an official consult?" House asked, eyebrows raised. "I'm sure Cuddy would get a kick out of me billing myself for a consult."

"Hospitals tend to breed resistant types," Wilson pointed out. "Vancomycin will knock _S. pneumoniae_ out every time. Unless, of course, you don't have that strain."

"But wait, Dr. Wilson, shouldn't you consult the lab results first?" House said sarcastically.

"Of course not, Dr. House, that would mean _waiting_ and while the patient may have time to kill, I certainly don't," Wilson said with a self-satisfied air.

House rolled his eyes again, gulping the apple juice down. "Why don't you go, I don't know, _check_ on the labs or something," he said. "Y'know, before I, like, drown on this disgustingly thick green alien goo."

"That, my friend, is what you have a staff for and what the rest of us have lab techs for," Wilson said. "And when the lab techs have Cuddy breathing down their necks—well, that's better than having three of your own personal scut monkeys."

House coughed into his fist and spat into the bowl again. He made a face and cleared his throat. "But have you ever experienced the joy of telling your own personal scut monkeys to make the machines work faster?" he said when he'd gotten his breath back.

"Okay," Wilson said, getting the hint.

He pulled the tray over and opened the grape juice, poured half of the can of Sprite in a cup of ice and stood up.

"I'll go bug the lab. But first, Cuddy and I agreed that a fluoroquinolone to start you off would be the best way to go. However, we're not infectious diseases specialists; you are. So we agreed we'd ask for your input first. What's your pleasure?"

"How kind," House said. "You mean you talked her in to asking me and she reserved the right to override whatever I say."

"Once again, you've cut through to the heart of the matter," Wilson said rolling his eyes. "What'll it be? We were thinking Levaquin."

House shrugged. "A little Levaquin won't kill me," he said, "but it will almost certainly kill my alien goo…unless it breeds a super strain of alien goo—the kind that attacks office buildings in Japan."

"A risk associated with most fluoroquinolones—most antibiotics," Wilson pointed out calmly. "Would you prefer a macrolide?"

"My alien goo can take your macrolide any day," House said and coughed hard.

"A cephalosporin perhaps?" Wilson suggested mildly.

"Don't be a wuss," House said dismissively.

"I know you won't go for Penicillin or a tetracycline," Wilson said. "That leaves…hmm, doxycycline or a fluoroquinolone and you're not going to go for a doxycycline either." He paused, giving House a condescending look. "Are you trying to teach me something, Dr. House?"

"Just making sure you're on your toes," House said lightly.

"Levaquin it is, then," Wilson said standing. "Which I believe we suggested in the first place."

"Nice job," House said. "You and Cuddy get merit badges." He coughed hard and spat into the bowl again.

"Five hundred milligrams coming right up," Wilson said turning toward the door.

"You're being a wuss," House said. "Seven fifty."

"You're the infectious diseases guy," Wilson said with a shrug.

That was a twenty-four hour dose. The cultures he'd ordered earlier would be back before it was time for more and then he'd know for sure if they were attacking the right bug with the right antibiotic. House will be able to tell him something about whether the antibiotic was working when he came to.

…but wait. Wilson mentally slapped himself for being an idiot and pulled his stethoscope out. House didn't need to be conscious. He could get an indication of how well it was working right now. _Duh, James, duh. This is why family members and close friends don't work on the patient—they forget everything, even the fundamentals_. He kicked himself again for being stupid as he bent down to listen to House's chest.

Normally he worked well under pressure. He didn't forget things and he didn't lose his head. Well. This was a different type of pressure. No excuse, though, he thought, _that's no excuse_.

He listened carefully. House was breathing slowly and shallowly and he couldn't hear as well as he would've liked, but from what he could tell, House's lungs sounded clearer. His temperature had gone down a few degrees prior to surgery; the ibuprofen should still be working too.

He sighed, sitting back down on the stool, wishing it had a back so he could lean into it. Recovery wasn't a place one settled down and got comfortable, though. House should come around any second now and barring any more weird complications, he'd be back in the room shortly.

House had been doing better. Before this.

Wilson sighed again. He'd been doing really well, actually. He must've taken out a mirror at the bar, Wilson mused, to heap so much bad luck on himself all at once.

Earlier, when he'd returned with the Levaquin, both the bottle of grape juice and the cup of Sprite were empty. Better than that, though: House had turned the television on and was waiting with a remark.

"D'ya think Masterson's still here?" he asked as Wilson came into the room. "The game's about to start. I hate to pass up a chance to take money off that guy."

"He wasn't on the schedule today," Wilson said as he started the Levaquin. "He's long gone by now. Came in just to see you."

"What a sadist," House muttered.

"This is where I say you should be thankful because he's really good and he agreed to come in on his day off, but I think I'll skip that part today," Wilson said.

"Gee, thanks, that really brightens my day," House said.

Wilson ignored him, checking the settings on the IV instead. "Want something else to drink?" he asked. "Something to eat?"

"I'm fluid overloaded as it is," House said rubbing his stomach. "Thanks, though. I feel better."

"Probably the ibuprofen," Wilson said returning to his seat.

"Hey," House said, clearly affronted, "How often to I hand out compliments like that?"

"So you're an ass normally, you're whiny and given to demagoguery when you're baked, and you're _nice_ when you're running a high fever?" Wilson said incredulously.

House looked at him blankly. "I fail to see the significance of what you're suggesting," he said.

"You wouldn't," Wilson mumbled.

House glared at him but was interrupted by another coughing fit. He groaned dramatically when it had subsided. "This sucks," he wheezed.

"You're complaining," Wilson noted, "you must be feeling better."

House flipped him off and smacked his head against the pillow. "You just berated me for not complaining," he mumbled, "and now that I am complaining, you're being glib."

"'This sucks' doesn't describe a symptom," Wilson said.

"Semantics," House muttered, closing his eyes.

Wilson saw him trying to relax. As soon as he looked comfortable, he started coughing again and spat into the bowl.

"What do you want for dinner?" Wilson asked when House was done. "I think you're entitled to something that breaks the rules tonight. Cheeseburger. Chili dog. Both."

House gave him a sidelong look, breathing harshly, then glanced down at the bowl in disgust. "You're talking about food _now_?" he said. "Ugh."

Wilson smirked. "This is a first," he remarked.

"What is?" House asked, turning toward Wilson again.

"Your being grossed out by something," Wilson said. "It's a first." He shrugged.

"So glad you were here to share this Hallmark moment," House said turning back to the television.

"So that's one cheeseburger, hold the pickle, and one chili dog," Wilson said. "Do you want to go safe and get one from the place next to the shopping center or should I get you one from that place that keeps getting shut down for health code violations?"

"Does this mean you're going home tonight?" House asked. Wilson couldn't tell if he was hopeful or not.

"What?" Wilson asked, trying to find the piece of the puzzle he'd missed.

"Come on," House said. "You're not going to feed me a Gut Buster and stay here all night. You wouldn't survive."

"The man has a point," Wilson said. "We'll figure something out."

"You mean you'll get one too and it'll become a contest," House said. He coughed hard again and spat, muttering a curse.

"Sounds like fun," Wilson said.

"Speaking of," House said, setting the bowl aside with disgust, pushing himself up, and throwing the covers back. "That sandwich is ready to make an appearance."

He pulled off the oxygen cannula and removed the pulse ox monitor from his finger, swinging his left leg to the floor. "Give me a hand."

"Uh, no way," Wilson said, getting to his feet and going for the door. "You're not walking."

"I'm not crapping on the bed either," House said adamantly. "It's weird, it's uncomfortable, it stinks, and I won't do it. Come here and help me up."

Yeah. That had been another fight. A relatively short fight when all the other fights from the day were added up. House had won, Wilson had worried and reminded him not to pee unless it was into a cup, and nothing had happened. Had it exacerbated the bleed? Of course. But it was also the reason they caught the bleed when they did. If House hadn't pushed and been allowed to get up, he might have simply slipped into unconsciousness later that night and no one would've known until the next vitals check. By then, it might've become something scary. He probably wouldn't have bled out—the injury was too small to begin with—but Wilson didn't want to think about 'maybes' or 'what ifs'.

Lying on the gurney next to him, House was starting to stir, but he wasn't waking up yet. Too much anesthetic. However, it was hard to properly anesthetize a patient who was already unconscious. He didn't place any blame.

He snorted to himself. That had been a real treat to watch, House passing out. Nevertheless, Wilson played the scene back in his mind. Might as well finish what he'd started, he reasoned.

He and House didn't do the three-legged man thing very often—House couldn't stand it—but it was necessary to get him to the bathroom. He'd been accepting and other than muttering a long string of curses at the pain walking was causing him—or the pain having his arm stretched over Wilson's shoulders caused his ribs, or trying to walk on one leg and cursing when he put his right foot down because his knee was tender and not ready to bear weight, or, Wilson sniffed to himself, because he was bleeding into his abdomen, probably all of those things, each in turn—it had been an uneventful, almost easy three-legged voyage.

Wilson got him settled and retreated to the room, worried but sensitive enough to turn the volume on the ball game up. He could still hear House coughing through the door and in a strange way, it was very comforting. He was hacking a lung up: of course he was fine.

After he was safely back in bed with a new pink bowl in his lap, he pulled the blankets up and closed his eyes, pale and tired. Clearly that much movement had hurt more than he was willing to admit. Wilson turned the volume down and watched House closely.

He was just about to check his watch when the door slid open and a nurse entered bearing another small plastic cup. Wilson smiled at her and poured a cup of water: not a moment too soon.

"House," he said softly just in case House had managed to fall asleep, "meds are here."

House opened his eyes and didn't seem to know where he was for a moment. Then his gaze shifted to Wilson and the nurse.

"Good," he said and held out his hand. He swallowed the pills without complaint, drank the water, and pulled the covers up again, closing his eyes and shivering.

That had been the first real hint that something wasn't right: House hadn't whined about the Demerol being in pill form. He simply took them. At the time, a red flag gone up for Wilson but he'd put it down to House just being tired from coughing his insides up, a taxing trip to the john, a fever, and an infection that had fatigue as a common symptom.

Now. Well. Hindsight was always 20/20.

Wilson had sat quietly for what must have been fifteen or twenty minutes—long enough for the Demerol to start kicking in and put House to sleep for a little while—when to his surprise, House opened his eyes and turned his head toward him.

"Hey," House said tiredly. "You know how you wanted me to tell you when something wasn't right?"

"Yeah?" Wilson said, sitting up straight in the chair, immediately on guard. "What is it?"

"I'm really dizzy," he said, "and cold."

He looked it. Wilson realized he had gotten really pale all of a sudden.

"Did this just start?" Wilson asked.

"No," House said. "It's been coming on for a while. At first I thought it was because I was coughing so much, but that can't be it."

"It's probably not a reaction unless something other than Demerol was in that cup," Wilson said getting to his feet.

"No, it was Demerol," House said. "I know what Demerol looks like. It's a little late for me to be reacting to the Levaquin." He wrinkled his forehead. "Doesn't feel like a reaction. Something else… I dunno."

"Something's really messing with you," Wilson said sympathetically. "Think you can squeeze out some urine for the lab now?" He brandished a kit.

"Hmm? Yeah. I'll give it a try," House said and took the kit. He tore it open and glanced at Wilson: _little privacy?_

"I'll put my fingers in my ears and hum," Wilson said rolling his eyes.

House rolled his eyes.

"If it is a reaction…" Wilson said. He wasn't going anywhere.

House gave him a look that read 'oh, all right,' and Wilson put his fingers in his ears, turning his eyes to the game.

The bottom of Arizona State's batting order was up. Wilson watched two batters go down on strikes before he heard House say something.

"What?" Wilson asked, removing his fingers from his ears. He balked at what he saw: House was holding up the cup, but instead of yellow urine, the fluid in the container was red.

"I said I think I found the problem," House said.

Wilson's mouth promptly fell open at that point and he was on his feet before he thought to stand up.

"Has your abdomen been hurting?" he asked taking the container from House.

"All day," House said calmly, not all bothered by the contents of the container.

"Has it gotten worse?" Wilson pressed, eyeing the container, then House, then the container again.

"Progressively," House said in a weirdly detached tone.

"And you didn't mention it?" Wilson said.

"Everything else got progressively worse," House pointed out. "Didn't seem like it was any different."

Wilson was out the door in a flash, saying "I'm calling surgery" over his shoulder.

When he returned with a nurse in tow, House was as calm as he'd left him. He let the nurse take his blood pressure and didn't seem surprised that it was much lower than it should've been. He didn't seem terribly surprised by anything. He had no snide remark when Wilson mentioned that he'd called Cuddy. He was, on the whole, non-communicative, blinking steadily at the activity around him. He said nothing when EKG patches were put on his chest. Wilson realized that it was part low blood pressure and part Demerol and he wasn't too surprised when House simply closed his eyes and passed out just as the gurney arrived to take him to surgery.

That had been it. He'd seen House to pre-op and made sure everyone was thoroughly apprised of the situation, double checked the amount of fluid they were giving him to boost his blood pressure, double checked that a pint of A negative blood was on its way and triple checked that it really was a bag of A negative and not B positive or something else when it arrived, and generally made a nuisance of himself until he was kicked out.

Then he called Cuddy again to let her know everything was proceeding as it should and assured her that he was okay and didn't need her to come down to keep him company. Then he'd checked the available lab results and harassed the lab techs to speed the other lab work up until one of the techs snidely told him they couldn't make cultures grow faster and that he was again making a nuisance of himself.

Then he'd called Julie because he didn't know what else to do. She'd listened patiently and recited the proper platitudes—she'd even offered to come and wait with him or at least to bring him something to eat and he was momentarily overcome with love for her—and he'd begged off, saying he was okay, and thanked her for listening. Then he'd gone to his office and kicked his trash can into an unrecognizable shape.

And now here he was, waiting.

The anesthesiologist arrived and told Wilson the same thing Vincent had told him.

"He hasn't come around yet?" she asked looking down at House.

"He's been stirring, but he hasn't woken up," Wilson said.

"Time we did that for him, then," she said and set about waking him up.

House woke suddenly, blinking his eyes heavily. The anesthesiologist asked him his name and he responded in a sleepy voice.

"Do you know where you are?"

House glanced around and spotted Wilson.

"Agh," he groaned, "_tell_ me it isn't Friday. Tell me I didn't dream the last two days. No, wait. Tell me I did. No, hang on. Shit. I can't decide which is better."

Wilson smiled. "It's Sunday," he said. "You've got a bad case of déjà vu."

"No kidding," House said.

He looked back at the anesthesiologist, blinked heavily, and tried to lift his arm to his face. Failing, he said in a dazed, drugged voice that still managed to sound put out, "Jesus, what did you use on me, horse tranquilizers?"

Wilson glanced at the anesthesiologist who was frowning. "He's fine," he said.

"You're sure?" she asked.

"Yes, he's sure," House said, eyeing her with a disgruntled look on his face.

Wilson laughed, "I'm sure."

He gave her his award-winning smile and she left satisfied.

Wilson turned back to House, who was losing the battle with the anesthetic. "Surgery went well," he said. "Go back to sleep."

But House was already well on his way, his eyes falling closed as Wilson spoke.

"Way ahead of ya," he whispered and faded into sleep.

Wilson smiled, feeling relieved. Yeah. House would be fine.

He stood and stretched, made sure all of the arrangements were taken care of to get House back to the room, and left to bother the lab again about getting the cultures done.

What a day. What a weekend.

He hoped House would sleep through the night. The anesthetic would keep him out for a few hours at least. So much for chili dogs and belching contests. Déjà vu all over again.

The lab rats gave him an update and kicked him out again before he could press them. Once he'd called Cuddy to let her know all was well, his stomach reminded him that it had been expecting a chili dog and he went to the cafeteria. Cold turkey sandwich. He got iced tea instead of coffee; if House was sleeping, he was sleeping. Or trying to sleep.

House was back in the room when Wilson returned. The night nurses had sympathetic faces for him too. He realized he could probably use a shower and a shave, but he didn't care. Now that House was okay again, the hours of adrenaline crashed around him and he plopped into the chair, place the remains of his ice tea on the bedside table.

House looked better. His color had improved. Wilson glanced at the monitors: everything was within the normal ranges. He checked House's lungs again: they sounded better too. Good. House was doing better. Good. It was strange almost, thinking that, after the long hours of the afternoon and evening. He felt as though he shouldn't trust that feeling, so when he pulled off his lab coat, untucked his shirt, and took off his shoes, he did so warily.

Settling in again. This was very familiar and strangely, it made him feel better. Routine. He reached up to snap off the overhead fluorescent light, plunging the two of them into darkness. He sat down heavily and fumbled around until he was as comfortable as he was going to get and stared straight ahead at the EKG monitor across from him.

After a while, House's steady, slow, drugged breathing lulled him to sleep.

* * *

:begs and whines pitifully: I hope the time shifts weren't too confusing. Whad'ya think? 


	20. The Family

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **Behold, the fic lives! Barely. I don't like this having a job and being an adult stuff. Teaching takes up way too much time and researching takes what little time is left. This chapter has been half-written since July or August (seriously). I've got a lot more planned and I hope to get it written soon, but as you can see, 'soon' may mean a month or two rather than a week or two. Stupid adulthood.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, even the reviewer who didn't like it at all (cause you made my review count go up by three reviews – awesome!). I hope the ducks come through in character, especially Chase. His POV was hard to write. Please remember that this is post-Honeymoon in terms of timeline, so these are still Season One's ducks and this is Season One's Cameron. Hope you like! (And please review regardless of whether you liked!)

* * *

**Chapter 18: The Family**

"Think he's losing it?" Chase asked soberly, half-heartedly tapping a pencil against the conference room table, eyes flitting from Foreman to Cameron and back.

"I always thought he was losing it," Foreman said with a half-laugh and sipped his coffee.

It was nine a.m. and House hadn't surfaced yet. He usually beat them all in. For several months in the beginning of the long, strange trip that was this fellowship, Chase had thought House slept in his office and weaved elaborate and convoluted ways in which House could pull that off (his favorite involved a bed hidden behind a false wall activated by a subtly-placed switch—a staple in swanky seventies porn), but once Foreman was hired and House started actually taking cases and involving the three of them and _he_, Chase, had to stay all night working or patient-sitting, he learned that House went somewhere else after all. Where that was he didn't know or care to find out, but suffice to say, he'd never been in earlier than House had _ever_.

In a manner of speaking, that is. Even if House wasn't coming in for some reason, his phone messages always beat Chase and Chase was almost never late. He was usually early. Well over a year in the states—edging up to two years—and something about his internal clock was still off, causing him to wake promptly every morning. Why he came in early was a differently question entirely, not one he could answer; he told himself that he did twice crosswords twice as fast when he was at work and that explained it well enough. He was rarely late. He rarely worried, either, having grown a skin as thick as his favorite leather jacket around the age of thirteen, but he was as worried as he ever got now. Which still wasn't very worried. House was always fine, anyway. If the man could live on coffee and candy—and Chase had learned that he not only could but did—he was probably fine in any given situation. Something involving kung fu and ninjas leapt into his head and he shook it off, tapping the pencil against the table again.

He snickered to himself a little. Foreman thought House was losing it. But Foreman always thought that. Chase looked to Cameron for her answer. The journal she had been reading was still open, her hand marking the page, but she seemed very far away at the moment. Then she saw him looking and caught herself.

"He lost it a long time ago," she said distantly, staring at the wall above Chase's left shoulder.

It bothered him when people did that. He was tempted to look behind him to find what she was staring at—half-fearing House was making faces behind him—and nearly did when Foreman turned in that 'what did you just say?' manner that he pulled off so well.

"What?" Foreman said, eyebrows raised, a mixture of confusion, surprise, amusement, skepticism, and slight disgust on his face.

Foreman was always trying to play the older brother; Chase resented the implication he was type-cast as the rebel boyfriend equation—that Cameron somehow needed to be protected from him. He was an ex-seminarian for Christ's—er, by crikey! But whatever. This conversation was about House, not him.

"What happened to 'I can still win him over'?" Foreman teased gently.

Cameron shot him a look.

"Oh, come on, it's been written all over your face for over a month," Foreman said in mock defense. "We'd have to be blind not to see it."

Foreman leaned back in the chair, having put the coffee mug down. Chase recognized it as Foreman's 'I'm intrigued; show me what you've got' posture.

"So what changed?" Foreman asked.

Cameron had begun to blush ever so slightly. If Chase hadn't known her range of blushing indignation so well, he would have missed it.

"Isn't it obvious?" she said to him.

Foreman looked unconvinced. She turned to Chase.

"The cause is pretty obvious," Chase said, tapping the pencil again, "but the mystic tone needs an explanation."

Chase exchanged a look with Foreman: they were on the same page. Cameron was flustered.

"Have you seen the way he looks at her?" she asked, trying to keep her tone even.

Her color was rising. House's delayed arrival might produce something interesting after all.

Foreman snorted. "You mean the 'I will boil you in oil as soon as I get shock collar off' look?" he said with disgruntled amusement. "Take out the shock collar and I'd say I've seen that look pretty often. Ten times a day at least—and that's on a good day."

He leaned in to pick up his coffee mug again: interrogation over. But Chase wasn't satisfied.

"It's weird, though," Chase said, left hand coming up to rub his chin. "I didn't think anyone was the master of House." He tapped the pencil again: his own signal for not being too serious about the conversation.

"You haven't been watching him and Cuddy closely enough," Foreman said with a half-leer.

"This is different," Chase said defensively. "She's got him by the—ah," he spotted Cameron, "sorry."

"No, you can say it," Cameron said in her 'words will never hurt me' voice. "You're right. She's got him by the balls."

"Which is where you'd like to have him," Foreman said suggestively with a grin.

Cameron looked past him, going mystical again. "Not…anymore…I don't think," she said slowly, as if to herself.

Chase rolled his eyes. "Just because she isn't letting go doesn't mean that—"

"No," Cameron interrupted, back in the conversation again, "it's not that. I mean, you're right, she isn't letting go, that's obvious, but what I meant is that he doesn't want her to."

Foreman gave her his 'you know you're nuts, right?' look.

"I know you don't have balls per se," he said, "but speaking as a guy—and Chase can back me up here—that's a really uncomfortable position to be in and no one would willfully subject himself to it."

Foreman looked to Chase and Chase nodded. "Very few guys," Chase qualified, "but certainly not House."

Cameron rolled her eyes: 'boys'. "You don't understand," she said dismissively and went back to the journal she'd been reading.

"Don't understand what?" Foreman pressed, back in diagnostic mode. "You've been making eyes at him for months and suddenly you stop. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on," Cameron said lightly. "I just realized that he's not ready for me yet." She looked back down at the journal.

Chase and Foreman exchanged a confused glance.

"You say that like you're not at all bothered," Chase said with disbelief.

"Seriously," Foreman said, sitting forward in his chair again as he did when he was engaged with a case, "I thought House did denial better than anyone else, but you may have him beat."

"You're both juvenile idiots," Cameron said with a superior smile, not looking up from the page she was reading.

"Oh, not that again," Foreman said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're not only taking over as queen of denial, you're having a personality transplant too?" he said with mock exasperation. "The world only needs one House."

"Actually I think the world might be okay without any Houses," Chase interjected.

"You may be right there," Foreman said.

"So _he's_ lost it already and _you're _losing it now," Chase said to Cameron. He looked over at Foreman and tapped the pencil once, hard against the table. "You about ready to run for the lifeboats?"

Foreman snorted a laugh.

"But really," Chase said glancing at his watch and then the door, "he's never late like this."

"Think something's up?" Foreman asked Chase.

They both turned to Cameron.

Chase could tell she felt their eyes on her but she didn't look up.

"Don't look at me," she said, trying very hard to pull off an unconcerned posture, still buried in her journal. "I wasn't even here this weekend."

"I didn't see him or hear from him," Foreman said to Chase with a shrug.

"Neither did I," Chase added. "I saw Dr. Wilson a few times. He didn't see me. Looked kind of agitated, but oncology will do that." He paused, a confused expression growing on his face. "Although…some of the nurses were looking at me funny. Really strangely. I don't know what…what?" he said to Cameron, who was smiling slightly at him.

"If you would stop undressing them with your eyes…" she said with a leer.

Chase made an affronted noise. "I do not," he said. He looked to Foreman for backup.

Foreman shrugged: _she has a point_.

"Well, it seemed like something else," Chase said, trying not to let them ruffle his feathers.

"House didn't assault another patient, did he?" Cameron said with a snort. "That could be it."

"Not Mark," Chase said, tapping the pencil on the table. "Not yesterday anyway."

"Not that you know of," Foreman added with a smirk.

Chase shrugged. "Mark didn't say anything."

"You asked him?" Foreman challenged.

"Well…no," Chase said. His expression darkened and he became defensive, "But I think he would've mentioned it. The guy's scared to death of him."

"Speaking of," Foreman said, "did you see Stacy at all yesterday?"

"Yeah, why?" Chase asked.

"Mark said that she'd gone back to work when I saw him on Saturday," Foreman said. "I thought that was strange—I mean, she hounds House into risking his license over the guy and then she's back at work the next day?"

"House risks his license all the time," Cameron said, her attention on the journal again. "He enjoys it."

Foreman and Chase both looked at her, realizing she'd been absent from the conversation for a while. And they'd been talking about Stacy. Whoops. They exchanged glances and Cameron caught them at it.

"You don't have to censor yourselves around me," she said defensively. "I'm fine."

They looked at each other again and then back at her: _if you say so_.

"She was there yesterday afternoon when I updated him on his labs," Chase said. "Some of his students had come down to see him earlier and they were talking about their visit." He shrugged. "Seemed pretty normal to me. Boring married stuff."

Foreman shrugged back. "I just thought it was a little weird," he said.

"Come on," Chase retorted, "she lived with House for what—five years? She's got to be a little weird." He turned to Cameron to say 'no offense' but she held her hand up and he stopped himself.

Foreman got up and went to refill his coffee mug. "Well," he said, "whatever it is, I guess it's nothing major. He's probably just taking a day off."

"Would you?" Cameron asked suddenly, looking up from the page she'd been trying to read for the last ten minutes.

"Would I what?" Foreman said, stirring cream into his coffee.

"Take a day off after something like that?" Cameron asked, an edge to her voice and a challenge in her eyes. Chase sighed to himself. When she got defensive, she got _really_ defensive.

Foreman threw the stirrer away and stepped back to his chair. "In the highly unlikely event that something like that ever happened to me, yes, I would take a day off," he said as he sat back down. "Hell, I'd take the whole week."

Chase sniffed, tapping the pencil against the table. "I'd change my name and leave town," he said. He stopped tapping and turned to Cameron. "But what I don't understand is, if he lost it a long time ago, why's he acting like he still has something to lose?"

Cameron glanced at both of them like they were out of their minds. "You both seem to think I have some insight into his head," she said. "Believe me, I don't." Back to the journal.

"Well, come on," Foreman said to Chase. "He's still in love with her. It's obvious." He glanced at Cameron. "Sorry," he said before she could stop him, "but it is."

"I know," she said lightly. "It's okay." 'Quit bugging me; I'm trying to read,' her face said.

Chase gave Foreman a doubting look. "Uh, I don't know what you think love is," he said, "but that's definitely not it."

Foreman shrugged and sipped his coffee. "Why else would House do something like that?" he said. "Unless she's got some horrible secret she's blackmailing him with." He paused. "I mean, the man is hopeless," he added with conviction.

"Hopeless, yes," Chase said, "but not hopelessly in love."

"You guys have no idea what you're talking about," Cameron interjected sagely, not looking up.

"So what do _you_ think?" Foreman asked, turning to her. "Why'd he do it?"

She looked up and shrugged, trying not to show how much it pained her to say it. Because Chase could tell that it did pain her.

"He still loves her," she said evenly. "He would do anything for her. But she doesn't love him."

"Yeah," Foreman said softly glancing down at the table with a sad laugh, "guess you know a little something about that."

Cameron shrugged again and looked back at the journal, seemingly unperturbed.

They were all silent for a moment. Foreman sipped his coffee, Chase tapped his pencil, and Cameron turned the page.

"You know," Foreman said to her after a while, "I never thought you were the quitting type. Sure you're okay?"

"I don't like it," she said with a shrug, "but what else can I do?" She smiled a little. "I'm okay."

Foreman gave her a small, knowing smile.

Chase fiddled with his pencil again, not knowing where to look. She was good at the martyr thing sometimes but this wasn't one of them. He could tell she meant what she said and that it hurt her to say it. He felt for her, he did, but this was all a little out of his league. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"So we're agreed he's not showing today?" he said. "Meaning I can actually answer a consult request for once?"

Foreman snorted. "Yeah, probably—"

All three turned their heads at the tap on the door.

Wilson pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside as three pairs of eyes regarded him curiously.

"Hi everyone," he said, somehow sounding both tired and nervous. "Dr. House won't be in today. He's…not feeling well."

"We were just wondering about him," Foreman said. "Is he okay?"

"He is," Wilson said nodding. "But he's going to take some time off."

Foreman and Chase exchanged a glance equivalent to a high five: they'd been right.

"Where is he?" Cameron asked, ignoring the boys and trying to sound nonchalant. "Why isn't he telling us this himself?"

Wilson looked down, hand going to the back of his neck. "Okay," he said, looking back up, "I'll be straight with you. He'll probably kill me for saying this, but…" he sighed, "I guess…better you hear it from me before the rumors get out of hand."

"Rumors?" Chase said incredulously. So those looks the nurses were giving him _had_ meant something.

"He…did something really stupid on Friday," Wilson said slowly. "Got into a fight. So…he's here. Fifth floor."

Cameron looked shocked; Chase was fairly certain his faced looked a lot like hers; Foreman shook his head ever so slightly as if he'd seen it coming. All three pairs of lips formed the same question.

"Don't worry," Wilson said quickly, heading them off, "he's okay. Nothing serious. We just want to keep an eye on him for a little while."

"Three days in the hospital," Cameron said in disbelief, starting to rise from her chair, "I think that's pretty serious." Wilson waved her down before she could stand and bolt to the floor above them.

"It was a nasty fight," Wilson conceded. He looked nervous to Chase—odd, because Chase couldn't recall ever seeing him truly nervous. He was rubbing his neck and breaking eye contact quite a bit: he wasn't just nervous. He was _very_ nervous.

"He didn't exactly walk away," Wilson continued. "He needed surgery to stop some internal bleeding and he managed to get more than his share of complications, but he's recovering nicely now." Wilson tried to smile. Chase realized Wilson was treating them like family. Weird.

"Complications?" Foreman asked, eyebrow raised.

"Pneumonia," Wilson said.

All three winced.

Wilson nodded sympathetically. "The cultures aren't back yet, but he's responding well to Levaquin. He's much better this morning. He also tore the stitches in his abdomen open again and needed surgery again last night. It was minor, though. Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about?" Cameron echoed, a mix of indignation, disbelief, and concern in her voice.

"He'll be fine," Wilson assured her.

"Which room is he in?" Cameron asked. "We'd like to see him." Chase and Foreman shot glares at her. "_I'd_ like to see him," she clarified.

"He's…not too happy right now," Wilson said cautiously. "He managed to sprain his ACL during the fight somehow. His right ACL."

They winced again.

"So he's getting some in-patient PT right now while he heals and he _hates_ PT," Wilson said. "He's very unhappy."

"He didn't want us to know," Cameron said matter-of-factly. Chase and Foreman looked at her again. "If he had, we would have been notified earlier," she said to them.

Wilson sighed, nodding. "He's embarrassed. And really grumpy. As I'm sure you can imagine, he's a horrible patient."

Foreman and Chase snorted. Cameron looked somewhat distraught.

"He's going to be miserable and unbearable until he's discharged and he knows that might be a while," Wilson added, "so anything in a lab coat is in trouble."

Three confused faces looked at Wilson. Chase's brow furrowed. Might be a while until he's discharged…Wilson wasn't telling them everything.

"It's just that after the last time, Dr. Cuddy isn't going to let him go anywhere until he's in better shape than he was before this happened," Wilson explained.

Their confusion deepened. Cameron was almost scowling. "The last time—" Chase said.

"Oh, right," Wilson said, "you don't…I guess he didn't tell you." He laughed quietly, looking down, and said to himself, "He is really gonna kill me for this." He looked back up at them and rubbed the back of his neck. "You guys were there for his lecture so you heard how it happened," he said, "but what he didn't mention is that Dr. Cuddy was there. She was the head of vascular before she took over the hospital. She was his doctor."

Chase was shocked. He knew he must look like Cameron. Foreman, again, had a look on his face that suggested that several pieces of a puzzle he'd been working on had just fallen neatly into place.

"So you can understand why she doesn't want to let him leave until he can follow through on his threats of physical violence," Wilson said with a smile. "But don't worry. He's okay." He snorted. "Just ask any nurse on the fifth floor. I don't know how he managed to do it so quickly, but by Saturday night every single one…" He shook his head.

Cameron recovered first. "What did he want you to tell us?" she asked stonily. "I mean, he obviously didn't want you telling us this. What did he want you to say?"

Wilson shrugged. "He told Cuddy to make something up and she told me to do what I thought was best."

"He didn't want us to know," Cameron said cautiously, "so I guess that means he doesn't want us to visit."

"He's pretty angry right now at having to stay here," Wilson said, "and having people come in and out of his room at will reminds him of how he has to stay here, so I doubt he would appreciate it. He's not in the best shape, either, and he doesn't like people seeing him when he's not at his best." Wilson paused and threw his hands in the air with a shrug. "But he's already going to kill me for and you probably would've heard about it before noon anyway, so all I can say is use your best judgment and remember that however mean and nasty he's been to you so far, he's about ten thousand times meaner and nastier right now. I'd give him space if I were you."

"So…should we just take the week off too?" Chase asked, caught between a mite of concern for House, the oath he'd taken at med school, and the hope that he might score some free time.

Foreman looked like he wanted to thump Chase for suggesting that. Chase scowled back.

Wilson smiled lopsidedly. "He wants you to keep checking on Mark Warner like you have been, but this is probably a good time to catch up on any articles you've been working on and take whatever vacation time you've been allotted if you want."

"When do you think he'll be back?" Cameron asked. "Even with a sprained ACL, he can use crutches and—what?" She stopped, seeing Wilson shake his head.

"Ahh, no," Wilson said. "No crutches. Broke his wrist. The, ah, right one. And you won't be seeing him in a wheelchair—ever, probably—so he'll be back when he can move around independently again. He'd probably tell you next week. I'd say about a month from now. So…I guess I'd say that if you have vacation time, cash it in now."

"Oh my God," Cameron said in shock. "What else happened? Can we see his chart?"

"That's out of my hands," Wilson said. "You'd have to ask him and I somehow doubt he'd say yes."

Chase watched Wilson rubbed the back of his neck again. Still nervous. Chase thought he might be holding even more back, but if Wilson didn't want to spill it, maybe it was better that he didn't know.

"In answer to your other question," Wilson continued, "he sustained a concussion and three broken ribs. He's had a rough few days."

They all winced again. Chase tallied the injuries in his head: they equaled one very miserable patient. House was probably snapping at the air in his room for being too musty or too fresh right now. Chase imagined he could live without seeing House for a few weeks.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Cameron asked.

"Yeah," Foreman said. "Who'd fight him?"

"Have any of you ever been to Boylan's?" Wilson asked.

Cameron and Foreman shook their heads. Chase stared at the space in front of him. "Yes," he said.

"Self-explanatory?" Wilson asked him.

"Yeah," Chase said. Realizing Cameron and Foreman were staring at him, he added, "Stephen Hawking could get into a fight there."

Wilson nodded. "That's the place."

"But why?" Cameron asked.

"That's another question you'll have to ask him," Wilson said. "And that question will _definitely_ piss him off."

"So…he's gone for what? A month? Just like that?" Cameron asked incredulously.

"I don't know that it'll be that long," Wilson said, "but I know all of you noticed he took this last case pretty hard. There's a lot of really unpleasant history there and he needs some time to deal with it."

"What if we have a case, though?" Cameron said. "Should we just let the person die because he doesn't want us to see him right now?"

Wilson paused, thinking it over. "If something does come up," Wilson said, "take it to Dr. Cuddy first. She'll decide where to go from there."

"Seriously," Foreman said incredulously. "House is _that_ prideful?"

"No," Wilson said. "It's not that." He took a deep breath. "He might not be up to it, that's all," he said with a shrug.

All three looked down. Oh. Right. House wasn't as indestructible as he wanted everyone to think.

"But he will be fine," Wilson reiterated. "He just needs some time."

Chase watched Wilson look at each one of them, giving them an opportunity to ask more questions. When he was met with silence, he nodded to himself, turned around, and left.

The room breathed strangely for a moment, none of them looking at each other, until Cameron said, "Well, they've really circled the wagons."

Foreman snorted. "What did you expect?" he said flippantly, "a personal invitation to give him a sponge bath?"

Cameron didn't bother glaring at him.

"I was right," Chase said shaking his head. "He has lost it."

"He got into a fight," Cameron said. "It's House. We've already seen him get punched in the face by a patient's relative. Chase, you said anyone could get in a fight there. He probably just picked a bad night to go out."

"No way," Chase said with a stuttering laugh, his accent getting thicker, "you're not reasoning him out of this one."

"What happened to kissing ass?" Foreman said snidely to Chase. "Why are you attacking him this time?"

"Why _aren't_ you?" Chase responded, affronted by Foreman's tone as much as his words.

Foreman shrugged. "If this is how he wants to use his vacation time…"

"This isn't vacation time," Cameron said vehemently. "He was beaten up."

Chase shrugged. "He could be a closet masochist," he suggested.

Cameron did glare at him this time.

"What?" Chase said defensively. "It's possible."

"You _would_ say that," Cameron said with an eye-roll.

"Oh, go on and stuff it," Chase muttered. House was gone, so now Cameron and Foreman would start tearing into him with extra vigor? "And anyway, he didn't get beaten up. He got into a fight. There's a difference."

Cameron sneered at him on principle but her heart wasn't in it. She glanced at the door, unconsciously moving to get up. Foreman saw her and interpreted her movements.

"You're gonna visit him, aren't you?" Foreman said. He shook his head with an amused but warning smile. "Girl…"

"Wouldn't you want me to visit you?" Cameron snapped back.

Foreman shrugged. "I'm not House."

"Come on," Cameron said, still glancing worriedly at the door, "wouldn't you want your friends to visit you?"

"Uhhh, I don't think we're his friends," Chase said uncomfortably.

"Maybe _you're_ not," Cameron said to him.

"You been spending a little quality couch time with him lately that we don't know about?" Foreman said with a smirk.

Cameron rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. "I don't have to hang out with him to care when he's hurt."

"Okay," Foreman said, nodding his head. "I'll give you that. But Dr. Wilson just said he doesn't want to see anyone. No part of that is hard to understand."

"Come on," Cameron said. "If it were you, wouldn't you want us visiting you?"

"You guys?" Foreman said looking from Cameron to Chase, "yes. House? No."

"He'd be more likely to bark at you for being sick than he would help you get better," Chase pointed out.

"But what if you needed him," Cameron pressed.

"That's not the point," Foreman countered. "He doesn't need us. He's injured, not sick. He's already been correctly diagnosed."

"You don't know that," Cameron said quickly.

Foreman snorted. "What I do know is that he doesn't want me snooping around him, sneaking a look at his chart. I respect his right to privacy just like I respect his right to do stupid things to himself."

"But that's just what he's trained us not to do," Cameron pointed out. "How many residences have we broken into this year? How many times has he forced us to force the patient to do what he wants?"

"There's one key difference here, though," Foreman said. "He's my boss."

"So you're trying to protect your job?" Cameron said incredulously. "That's not like you."

"This has nothing to do with my job," Foreman said evenly. "He wants to be left alone; I don't find that hard to do." He paused, challenging Cameron's glare with one of his own. "I mean, would you really want him seeing you like that?" he said. "Stuck in a bed in one of those gowns? He's humiliated enough as it is. Let him be."

"I'm surprised you _don't_ want to visit him," Cameron said sullenly. "Humiliate him a little more. Put him in his place."

Foreman held his hands up defensively. "I wouldn't mind him stepping down the attitude but I don't think taking a peek at his incision site is going to help that."

"You don't care at all?" Cameron said. "You're totally apathetic?"

"I have a hard time sympathizing with someone who picks a fight," Foreman said. "He did it to himself. I'm not going to hold his hand and tell him it'll be okay. He's probably miserable."

"All the more reason to visit him," Cameron said. "Being a patient becomes monotonous very quickly. He'd probably welcome the break from boredom."

"Allison," Chase said, "he _hates_ us."

"No, he doesn't, _Robert_," Cameron retorted. "He just doesn't want to like us; he hates the idea of liking us. He doesn't hate us."

"You're cutting that point pretty finely," Foreman said. "And you're using the word 'hate' so much it's all I'm hearing."

"His problem is that he doesn't know how to handle positive feelings of any kind for anyone," Cameron pronounced.

"He seems to get along with Wilson pretty well," Chase pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I think they went to kindergarten together or something," Cameron mumbled. "My point is that he probably wouldn't mind seeing us. And Dr. Wilson said that he wanted us to watch Mark for him, so it follows that he wouldn't mind a daily report of some kind."

"Yeah," Foreman said rolling his eyes, "something like, Mark had spaghetti for lunch, fish for dinner, and for dessert, he had a hand job from his wife, who loves him and spends all of her time with him." He sniffed. "Why do you think he got into a fight in the first place?"

"Wrong place, wrong time," Cameron said regally.

Foreman shook his head. "You are not that deluded. Chase? What do you think? You've actually _been _to this place."

Chase shrugged. "You're both right."

They looked at him, asking for further explanation.

Chase rolled his eyes. "You'd have to be blind not to see how upset he was last week," he said. "The timing isn't coincidental. But if he'd gone to a different place, this probably wouldn't have happened. It's a rule."

Cameron looked at him with confusion. "What's a rule?"

Foreman turned to her. "Guys have rules," he explained. "There are certain people you don't hit. Ever." Foreman sighed. "Broken wrist. Internal bleeding. That's not just a few punches. Even the kind of guy who'd break that rule wouldn't go much further than a few punches."

"What are you saying?" Cameron asked.

"That he asked for it," Chase said. "Even at that place…" he trailed off, thinking. "Yeah, he had to have asked for it. Beg for it."

"You're not serious," Cameron said. "How do you know it was one person? It might have been a group—after his wallet or something."

"It's a rule," Foreman said. "You don't beat certain people. Most people who are after money don't stay to fight because it increases their chances of getting caught. They might stab or kick once to avoid being chased, but it's highly unlikely that a mugging would inflict so much damage. Even if House tried to fight back…no. He had to have wanted it."

"Someone with mental problems might have done this," Cameron said.

"Why are you trying so hard to make him the victim?" Chase asked.

"Because it sounds like he was attacked," Cameron said.

"He was," Foreman said, "but you know House. He probably went in there and started talking shit to the wrong person…." He threw up his hands. "It's not that hard to imagine. That's all I'm saying."

"You were saying he wanted it," Cameron said.

Foreman sniffed. "He did. House always knows exactly what he's doing."

"Wilson said he was really shaken up about…" her voice dropped and she looked down, "…last week…" it took her a moment to realize she'd drawn attention to herself. "People lose control," she said assertively. "It happens." She paused. They didn't look convinced. "Even to House," she added.

"I don't think so," Foreman said, "but there's no use arguing." He stood up. "I'm going to check my consult requests."

Chase followed suit, abandoning his pencil and crossword. "Good idea," he said.

Cameron stood also. Foreman and Chase waited expectantly for her to announce what she was going to do. She paused for a moment, taking them in, enjoying the power she thought she had over them. Chase scoffed to himself. He didn't care what she did. Not really. No. He didn't care at all.

"I'm going to check on Mark Warner," she said smartly and turned on her heel.

As the door swung shut behind her, Chase glanced at Foreman. They were of the same mind again: she was going to check on Mark to have an excuse to visit House. Crazy.

'Women,' they concluded silently and went in opposite directions after they exited the conference room.


	21. All Roads Lead to the Clinic

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to Taru and Benj who motivated me to get it done sooner than I'd planned. I hope the scene with Cameron isn't too disappointing or out of character (that wouldn't have changed no matter how long I'd waited). She's tough to write for me.

Good news! The next chapter will be posted Tuesday prior to the new episode and it will contain a lovely twist. (House is pregnant! Oh drat, I couldn't keep it a secret.)

Please let me know if you like/dislike. :)

* * *

**Chapter 19: All Roads Lead to the Clinic**

"This is far and away the most you've ever done to get out of doing something I want you to do," Cuddy said sternly.

But she was smiling. How could she not be smiling? If she was any judge of Wilson, last night had been hellacious for House, and yet here he was sitting up in bed slurping chocolate milk and giving her the usual 'ah, my mortal enemy, how good to see you again' glare. Given what he'd been through in the past twelve hours, he looked great.

"You know me," House said with a smirk, "I'm a sucker for surgery."

Cuddy gave him an eye roll but she was still smiling. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

House recoiled in horror. "How am I _feeling?_" he said, "how am I _feeling?_ I can't even begin to answer that question." He paused for effect, sipping the milk, before muttering, "Stop it or I'll start thinking you care. Then where would we be?"

Cuddy kept smiling. House was House, which was always both good and bad, but usually slightly better than worse. He was being himself. She'd been able to tell from Wilson's demeanor when they spoke earlier that House hadn't been himself at all yesterday evening and the change had shaken Wilson more than he would ever admit.

"You look good," she said, her smile warming. Seeing him so messed up had shaken her too.

House narrowed his eyes as best he could. The swelling around his eye had finally gone down and though it was a shade of deep purple and several capillaries had burst, making it bloodshot, it finally resembled its twin.

"Who are you and what have you done with the real Cuddy?" he asked skeptically.

Cuddy rolled her eyes again. "I was going to reschedule your appointment with Myers to give you a day to rest, but I'm starting to think you don't need it," she said wryly.

"I _knew it!_" House said, gesturing triumphantly. "_No one_ can fake that kind of rack."

Cuddy glared at him. "House, pay attention," she said.

House's mouth twisted into a displeased shape. "I'll see him as an outpatient," he said dismissively. "I'm ready to leave."

Cuddy glanced from his pale, half-flushed face to his wasted upper body and skeletal arms and back. She snorted. "I'm not having this conversation with you," she said.

"If you had let me leave yesterday, I wouldn't have spent hours yesterday coughing myself into a bleed," he argued, coughing now, though whether it was meant to accentuate his point or a real reflex she couldn't tell. The congestion it revealed signified that he was still sniffing humidified oxygen for a very good reason, though. And he wanted to leave.

She snorted again. "If you'd left yesterday, you would have bled out on your couch," she said.

"Oh come on," House said. "No one bleeds out from that kind of injury. Even hemophiliacs are safe."

Cuddy glared at him again. "House," she said warningly.

But House was never one to concede a point without a fight. "Your hospital has already chewed up my lungs," he said with a cough. "I want to get out of here before it starts chewing up other parts of me—parts I _really _care about."

"If you leave now, you leave in a wheel chair with antibiotics and Ibuprofen," Cuddy said, annoyed that he'd catapulted her into hypothetical land. There was no way he was leaving today. "I'm not prescribing anything else until we find an alternative to Vicodin that works for you."

"You're still harping on that?" House said. "Give it a rest." He started coughing hard and had to put down the milk to cover his mouth.

Cuddy tried not to crack and show the sympathy she felt as he coughed harder, his face turning red, and tried awkwardly to hug his ribs with his right wrist in a cast. He had to know he needed at least another day of IV antibiotics before he could even think about going home. He was sick, whether he wanted to admit it or not. She'd show him his chest x-ray if he blustered about leaving again. No one with that must chest congestion was going anywhere.

She poured a cup of water and left it in his reach. He glared at her as she stood up.

"You have an appointment at two with Myers," she said perfunctorily. "He's going to order as many tests as possible; I don't imagine it will be much fun. All you have to do is say the word and I'll reschedule."

House's glare got meaner. He said nothing.

"All right," Cuddy said with a shrug. He was so intent on digging his own grave—well, he could in this case. She glanced over him again. An afternoon of tests would wear him out completely. She made a mental note to supervise the scheduling of his tests today, to make it as light as possible. _Like he'd appreciate it_, she thought.

"Appadurai wants to see you again too," she added. "Tomorrow morning."

"I thought we cleared that up," House said in a strained voice. He was making a show of not touching the water, which he clearly needed.

"She has some more questions," Cuddy said simply.

House said nothing, staring at her. She could tell he was doing everything in his power not to look at the water. She wanted to say something sympathetic, something nice. Something as simple as 'get some rest,' but he would only… She growled inwardly. He was _so_ infuriating.

"I'll see you later," she said as coolly as possible and left before she did anything remotely human.

Once he was sure she was gone, House grabbed the water, swallowed it in one huge gulp, and collapsed against the bed. That had been much more tiring than he'd anticipated. He breathed in carefully, trying not to start another coughing fit, and tipped his head back against the raised mattress. So tired.

Wilson had been tiring earlier this morning when House had finally come out of the near coma the anesthesia had put him in (he reminded himself to find out who she was and sic her on all of his annoying patients in the future: they'd sleep for days under her), bugging him about labs and listening to his chest and getting him to breathe and cough and checking the incision and checking his knee and making sure he knew what the capital of New York was. House had been tired and dizzy when Wilson had finally released him from his clutches.

He dozed after that. Then breakfast had been tiring. He was back on liquids until lunch, but liquids and Good Morning America had been enough to put him down again. Then Cuddy had insisted on making a bad situation worse by showing up and saying stupid things. Now he was tired again. What a wuss.

Fever, he considered. He was still running a fever. And drugs. Painkillers. All of Cuddy's threats meant nothing when he had Demerol humming in his veins. They could be a little more liberal with it, though. His upper body hurt when he moved and his knee ached, but his leg was actually behaving itself very well on the whole and he had a feeling that if he weren't coughing all the time, his head wouldn't hurt either. He could live a long and happy life if he never had another concussion. Maybe taunting that cop hadn't been the best thing to do. Maybe Cuddy was right about him going home too. Whatever strength he'd gained yesterday had been sapped last night. But a few days of food and rest…then he'd be back on his feet.

Whatever. His eyes were closing. Sleep was a great idea.

* * *

Cameron drifted down the hall, turning the things Wilson had said over in her head. When she'd said to House last week, about him not being able to love her…she hadn't crushed some latent hope or desire…had she? But he couldn't—didn't—love her, so why would it matter what she said to him?

And yet she couldn't shake the feeling that she was responsible for what had happened. Okay, not fully responsible, but even if she were a little responsible… She had to see him. She had to know. He could be as horrible to her as he wanted; she _had to know_.

Why else would he have gotten himself beaten up? _If _that was what happened in the first place, and she wasn't sure it was. House had a smart mouth; he could easily have picked a fight. She didn't believe Chase and Foreman's "rules" for bar fights. She _had_ witnessed a bar fight before: she didn't think the aggressors were too careful about who they picked to beat up.

But still. What if he had gotten into a fight on purpose? He wouldn't do that over her, would he?

Cameron frowned a little. He probably _would_ do that over Stacy. Chase and Foreman were right about that: she did have House begging at her feet.

Her frown deepened. Maybe he did ask for it…

Well. That didn't really matter. What mattered was whether she'd had anything to do with what happened.

God. All those injuries _and_ a respiratory infection? She shuddered at the hell this weekend must have been for him. If someone had only called her. If Foreman and Chase weren't both too insensitive to check the admissions records or notice Wilson was acting funny or _something_.

And if he did do this over Stacy… Her husband was going to be an in-patient for a while and Cameron didn't imagine she would just go home. She could hardly fathom that—leaving her sick husband by himself. Cameron hadn't left his side—her poor dear husband—when he went through chemo, no matter how bad it got. He needed her the most when it was bad. And it was often bad—very bad—especially the last few weeks before… He had been so brave, even when he was crying or cursing, he was still so brave. A few days before he died, he'd changed. He became tranquil. He knew. Of course he knew. She knew too. She never left him and she couldn't see how anyone else would ever leave a sick loved one. She knew they did—of course: she saw it regularly. Everyone dealt with the anxiety of a sick relative differently. But the spouses and parents who left…she would never really understand that. It wasn't human.

She didn't see Stacy as the type who left a sick loved one. She'd been there with House, after all, and if he was impossible to deal with when he was well, he must have been so much worse… Cameron didn't know how long Stacy had stayed after it had happened but she'd been there to make the decision that saved his life. He must have been even more horrible after he'd come to and found out what had happened. It was abundantly clear to those who knew him that he was still angry at her for it: he couldn't keep the anger out of his voice when he'd lectured those students two weeks ago. But after five years of dealing with him—and it was so clear that Stacy had loved him: Cameron could see that too—she couldn't have just left. And her husband, Mark—he seemed like a normal person. If Stacy didn't abandon House, there was no way she'd leave Mark right now. So she would be around as long as he was…and House would have to deal with that.

Cameron smiled wryly to herself. He already had to be high to deal with everyone else; if _this_ was how he dealt with Stacy, he was in big trouble.

But if it hadn't all been over Stacy, if some of it had been over what she had said to him last week, Cameron knew she'd have to rethink working with him. She didn't want to hurt him and if she had to quit again to avoid that, she would. She wasn't Stacy: she wouldn't hang around him if she knew her presence was hurtful. It would be hard, leaving again, but she would do it if she had to. She wouldn't hurt him.

Her feet had carried her to House's floor. Well. Now was as good a time as any. She was never going to be any more ready than she already was.

Cameron approached an unfamiliar nurse. "I need to speak with Dr. House," she said, "is he…available?"

The nurse looked at her like she had two heads. "Dr. House isn't receiving visitors," she said stiffly.

"It's about a patient," Cameron said, "I work for him. I'm Dr. Cameron."

She extended her hand and the nurse shook it, but the nurse didn't look very convinced.

"He wanted to be updated on the status of one of his patients," Cameron continued, "according to Dr. Wilson."

"Oh, Dr. Wilson," the nurse said. "Well, if he knows about it, I suppose you can see Dr. House." She started toward House's room. "Let me see if he's awake," she said.

"Ah, I can check on him," Cameron said hastily. "I won't disturb him if he's asleep." She put on her most convincing smile.

"You're sure Dr. Wilson knows about this?" the nurse said.

"He stopped by our office to fill us in on Dr. House's condition earlier this morning," Cameron said.

"Okay," the nurse said, and with one final glance at Cameron, nodded.

Cameron nodded back, smiling winningly, and started toward House's room.

The blinds were closed but she could see the television from the door. A mid-morning talk show. She recognized Britney Spears. She sniffed to herself: House wasn't likely to be sleeping through that. But if he was, she really shouldn't wake him up. Wilson was a terrible liar; she could tell this morning that he was really worried about House and the fact that House was still an in-patient, well, he probably needed to rest. He didn't need her bringing up something that might be difficult. Especially if she'd had anything to do with what he did…

_No_.

He was fine. Cuddy, Wilson, _someone_ would have called them this weekend if he weren't fine. And she had to know. And if it really was her fault, they could talk about it, get it out in the open, and he would feel better.

Yes.

Cameron took a deep breath. She could do this.

She tapped lightly on the glass door and slid it open. She half-turned to leave, an apology for having the wrong room on her lips, before she recognized him. Beneath the bruises, the stitches, the pallor…that was…

"Dr. House?" she said uncertainly.

She hadn't expected him to look so different, so out of place. Somehow she hadn't understood that he would look like any other patient, dressed in a gown, tucked into bed, equipment surrounding him, looking sick and helpless. Like any other patient. She kicked herself for not foreseeing the shock. A fight, two surgeries, an illness: of course it would show, and all of it did. It was written on his face and in his posture. He looked sick and injured. So normal, so not himself. Incredibly old and haggard but also incredibly young and vulnerable: incredibly not himself. The part of her not overcome by sympathy was horrified at the sight.

"Dr. Cameron," House said in his usual 'why the hell are you bothering me when I'm busy with television?' tone. "Do you have my lunch hidden behind your back or are you paying a social call?"

His tone was undercut by a cough that rumbled deep in his chest. Cameron fought back a look of horror. "Hi," she said, trying to smile.

"So that's a 'no' on lunch?" House said, coughing again.

"Dr. Wilson said you wanted to be updated on Mark Warner's status," Cameron said as evenly as she could.

House waited a beat before he spoke. "And?" he said. "Guy's not dying again, is he?"

"No, no, he's fine," Cameron said quickly.

House waited again. "Then what is it?" he said irritably.

"Nothing," Cameron said, rocking back and forth, heel to toe, toe to heel, a few times before she stopped herself. "I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing."

"I'm great," House said bitingly. "This is how I spend all of my vacations."

Cameron grinned self-effacingly. "Okay, stupid question," she said. An awkward pause ensued. Clearly House expected more than that. "You look good," she volunteered.

"Good to know," House said, "cause I feel awesome and I wouldn't want there to be a discrepancy between appearance and reality."

Cameron sighed and rolled her eyes.

House waited for her to say something. Nothing. He had a remark on the tip of his tongue when he suddenly coughed hard and had to hug his ribs. His right arm was getting really sore from being held in the same position all the time.

"Is there something you, ah, wanted?" House said between coughs, "because now isn't the best time to chat."

"Ah, no, ah, no," Cameron said, beginning to fidget openly, not sure if she should do something to help him or not. He stopped coughing before she could do anything and took a drink from a cup on the tray in front of him. Okay, so he didn't need help.

"I just wanted…to…check on you," she said, giving him her best 'I'm not really worried' smile, unaware that she was still fidgeting. "Dr. Wilson told us what happened…and Foreman and Chase weren't sure if…but I wanted to…just say hi I guess."

"Hi," House said with a sardonic grin. "Wasn't that nice? Now say what you really came here to say." He nodded carefully at the television. "My show is coming on in eight minutes."

Cameron stepped closer to him, consciously stopping her hands from wringing. "Why?" she said, brow furrowed with concentration, curiosity, and apprehension.

House turned his head slightly, the sardonic grin returning. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that," he said.

She was wringing her hands again without noticing. "Why did you…do this," she said slowly.

"Do what?" House asked.

"Get yourself beaten up," Cameron said bluntly.

"Oh, that," House said, oversold enlightenment filling his face. "I love pain. Pain's my new thing. I'm really into it."

Cameron's hands started wringing furiously. She looked crushed.

House caught her demeanor. "O-kay," he said. "Obviously you've never been in a bar fight." He coughed a little and took a breath. "It works like this: go to the right place at the right time and say the wrong thing or be the wrong color or the wrong orientation or the wrong anything and this is where you'll find yourself." He paused, looking her over. "Okay, maybe not you, but any guy."

Cameron looked as if she had more to say but didn't know how to say it. "Why…did you…" she began.

House waited for her to spit it out, nodding his head to encourage her.

"…go to the right place at the right time?" she finished in a half-stammer.

"It's my usual hangout," House said casually. "Normally we're just like Cheers but we had a real tough customer roll into town and—"

Suddenly Cameron snapped out of it, clearly displeased. "No," she interrupted, "I want a real answer."

"Why do you think?" House said immediately, turning the question around. That usually worked. They said what they thought and as long as he didn't overtly deny it, they went away thinking what they wanted to think and left him alone.

"Is it...because…because of what…I…"

"Oh," he said realizing what she meant. "You want to know if it was because of what you said to me last week."

"Yes," she said with a firm nod.

House regarded her for a moment. If he made any sudden movement, he was sure she'd topple over. "It wasn't," he answered.

Cameron's face betrayed confusion and concern now. "Then…why?" she asked hesitantly.

House shrugged. "Sometimes there is no why," he said. "Things just happen."

"And this is one of those times?" Cameron asked.

House donned a tight smile, part of his 'you're an idiot' look. "That's the implication," he said.

Cameron wasn't convinced. "So it just happened?" she said. "For no reason?"

"Things have a way of doing that from time to time," House said simply. "If you want to look for a reason—if it makes you feel better—you can probably find one. That doesn't mean it's right."

"Doesn't mean it's wrong either," Cameron countered.

House snorted, setting of a round of coughing by accident. "If you think I'm going to go through and negate every reason you can come up with…" he said, the last half of his sentence smothered by coughing.

Cameron still wasn't convinced. "So it wasn't…" she began.

"No," House said, taking another drink.

"You're sure," Cameron said.

House inclined his head again. "I'm usually pretty sure when I say something," he said. He finished off the water and rubbed his chin. "Look, I've got a busy schedule today. Cuddy's one hell of a cruise director." He paused, eyeing Cameron with his working eye. "If you really want to help me, go put in clinic hours under my name so I don't have to make them up later. Think of it as a gift: you get to be me for a few hours. Most people would pay _and _stand in line for that privilege."

Cameron sighed a little, a small smile on her face. "Okay," she said. "Is there anything I can get you or do for you?"

"Annoy the hell out of Cuddy," House said without hesitation.

Cameron smiled for real this time. "Other than that," she said.

"If I think of something, I'll let you know," House said, making a gesture that now was the time to leave.

Cameron hesitated. "You're sure you're okay?" she asked.

"As sure as I was the last time you asked me," House said, annoyance edging into his voice.

"Okay, I get it," Cameron said holding up her hands and backing away toward the door. "I was just trying to be nice."

"How's that working out?" House asked facetiously.

Cameron glared at him.

House glanced at the television. "My show is about to start," he said. "If I miss the beginning, I'll never catch up." He waved her off with his left hand. "Go save some lives or something."

"Okay," Cameron said, sliding the door open. "Let me know if you need anything."

"I will, I will," House said, eyes on the television now.

Cameron took the hint and closed the door behind her. So it wasn't…but he could've been lying. Despite his assertions to the contrary, he lied compulsively. But about something this big?

No.

No, he wouldn't lie about that. It really wasn't what she'd said. So…what was it? Was it really Stacy? Cameron felt her heart sink. She hoped it wasn't, that he really had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, because if Stacy was the reason, he was in trouble. She would be around for a while. God. How awful. And how awful he looked, his face so much thinner than usual, the wires and tubes entangling him, his wrist in a cast and his eye deeply bruised. And the wet, labored coughing. It was worse than Wilson had said.

She wasn't sure what to do with herself now. She couldn't do anything to help that Wilson wasn't already doing. House clearly didn't want her hanging around. Chase and Foreman had been right. But he hadn't been as nasty as Wilson had led her to believe he would be. Maybe she would stop by again later. She'd come up with something to cheer him up. Something he would want right now that he didn't already have. Yes. That would help.

And maybe she would talk to Stacy. Find out what had happened between the two of them.

And maybe not. Their relationship really wasn't any of her business. But she wouldn't feel right without doing something to help.

Then she had it. Of course. She'd do what he'd asked her to do, even if he wasn't serious when he'd said it. He'd appreciate it, whether he deigned to show that appreciation or not.

Cameron smiled a little, feeling better now, and started toward the clinic.


	22. Monkeywrench

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **As promised, one plot twist. I've had this planned as part of the fic for months now. I'm happy to finally get to it, though nervous about how you'll react. It takes a fic that was already somewhat dark into new territory.

Re: Cameron in the last chapter. Yeah. I have no real love for Cameron, but I was trying not to let my feelings show when I wrote the chapter. I hope it was as close to canon Cam as one can get, given that canon Cam is a schizoid character right now and difficult to predict/write. So, for everyone who asked for ducklings earlier on in this fic…um…that chapter is evidence of why I don't write the ducklings very often. But they'll be back in this fic. :)

Well…now I'm cringing over this plot twist and the characterization of Wilson and Stacy in this chapter. I like Stacy but I think she's capable of immense evil bitchiness. Please let me know what you guys think. I hope it doesn't strike anyone as completely implausible. I'm going to go wait nervously somewhere while you read.

* * *

**Chapter 20: Monkeywrench**

Wilson was sitting in his office with the door cracked open catching up on paperwork when he heard a tap.

"Come in," he said without looking up. Whoever it was, he actually had the time for once to deal with them. House was improving and didn't need a babysitter any longer. Who knew fever was the secret to getting him to behave? He'd been asleep the last time Wilson had checked on him. Sleep. Sleep sounded _wonderful_. Wilson knew he was beginning to show signs of exhaustion. He promised himself a long nap as soon as he got rid of this person. Whoever it was.

"Is this a bad time?"

His head snapped up, the committee proposal in front of him forgotten. It was her.

"No," he said, "no, ahh, come in." He put the pen down and gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. "Sit down," he said. "What…can I do for you?"

Stacy approached his desk and took the seat he offered. "How is he?" she asked immediately.

"Shitty," Wilson said in a toneless voice. Now that the surprise had worn off, he found himself angry. Irrationally angry. He didn't owe her an explanation, even if she had gotten House out of a court appearance.

"Dr. Appadurai has been seeing him," Stacy stated, crossing her legs and making the power suit she was wearing work harder than it had ever worked before.

Wilson recognized her tone: she was presenting evidence, building a case. He was immediately on guard. She was here with an agenda and he sensed he wouldn't like any part of it.

"Keeping up with one beau isn't enough for you?" he said caustically, leaning back in his executive chair and affecting a calm he didn't feel.

Stacy ignored his jab. "It was more than a fight," she charged. "He tried to kill himself."

"So what if he did?" Wilson said callously, waving his hand dismissively. "It's his life." He was amazed he'd been able to keep a straight face, much less pull off the apathy so characteristic of House and so unnatural of him.

Stacy sniffed. "You don't believe that for a second," she said. Wilson was not good at this, though it was fun to watch him try.

"What does it matter what I believe," Wilson said coolly.

Stacy wasn't listening to his act. "How?" she pressed, sitting forward in the chair.

"He did not try to kill himself," Wilson stated calmly. He picked the pen up again and started twirling it with his left hand.

"It's not just the assault," Stacy charged. "And if it were only a fight he'd be discharged by now. You and Cuddy wouldn't be hovering over him like worried parents. Appadurai wouldn't be seeing him."

"Haven't you heard?" Wilson sneered, "they're the hottest new item in the hospital."

"It's his pills," Stacy asserted with a real sense of calm that came from years of talking her clients out of tense situations. "Don't try to deny it. I read the police report—several times. They requested a tox screen. I don't need to see it to know what it says. He overdosed."

Wilson shrugged and shook his head slightly. "What do you want me to say here, Stacy?" he said.

"I want to see him," she said flatly.

"No," Wilson said. He'd expected this since Saturday. He'd had this conversation with her in his head more times than he could count. He was ready for this. But she was so quick-witted and intelligent, just like House: he'd have to stay on his toes.

"Not right away," Stacy qualified, backing off her attack a little. "In a day or two."

"No," Wilson repeated firmly. The situation was non-negotiable in his mind.

"When he's ready," Stacy said.

"He's never going to be ready," Wilson countered.

"Then he's never going to get better," Stacy said simply. "He'll only do it again and he won't screw it up the next time." Her tone changed perceptibly. Fear, anger, concern, and desperation simmered under the surface. "He's screaming for help."

"We're helping him," Wilson said coolly, unfazed by the new level of emotion he detected.

"You're not the cause of the problem," Stacy said.

"And you think you are?" Wilson said with a bitter laugh. "You think it's all you? And if it is, that he wants to see you?" He couldn't hold the anger and resentment he felt back any longer, as he sat forward in the chair, his face betraying utter disgust. "He told me what you said to him. Jesus Christ, how you could do that to someone? Especially him?"

"He needed to hear it," Stacy argued.

"Yeah, it fixed him right up," Wilson snarled bitterly.

"We both know Greg House can't be fixed," Stacy said wearily.

"Then why are you here?" Wilson asked.

"Because I can help him in ways no one else can," Stacy said.

"Such as?" Wilson asked, though he had no intention of entertaining her idea.

"That's between him and me," Stacy said primly.

Wilson laughed. "You expect me to let you see him based on that?" he said.

"Part of his problem is that he never let go," Stacy said. "I can help him let go."

Wilson laughed again. This was so absurd. "Forgive me for stating the obvious," he said, "but you just told him you weren't over him. How can you help him let go if you haven't let go yourself yet?"

She hesitated. Yes—she wasn't going to win that easily, Wilson thought.

"Maybe I can't help him there," Stacy said after a moment, "but I can help him move on."

She sounded so sincere and Wilson was tempted to listen, but he simply couldn't.

"Move on to what?" Wilson snapped. "Someone who'll devote herself to him completely and let him run her into the ground? A female Mark?"

She narrowed her eyes at him but let the insult pass. "Dr. Cameron," she suggested.

"She has a crush," Wilson said dismissively. "You can't build a relationship on a crush."

"How about one of the other women lining up to get to him?" Stacy snipped. "Oh, wait, there aren't any."

"So he should take what he can get?" Wilson snipped back. "Cut his losses? Be with someone he doesn't love?"

"I love Mark," Stacy said through clenched teeth.

"Not the way you loved him," Wilson charged. "You've settled."

"Is that so wrong?" Stacy said.

"It is for him," Wilson said. "He hates his life because he was forced to compromise when he didn't want to. You're not saying anything that's going to help him."

"I should just let him die?" Stacy said, frustrated with Wilson's recalcitrance.

"It's not your call," Wilson said firmly.

"_You're_ going to let him die?" Stacy said disbelievingly.

"I'm not going to force him to settle for second best," Wilson said. He'd found her sore spot and he wasn't afraid to push hard on it.

"You're saying I should dump my husband?" Stacy said angrily.

"You and House don't work anymore," Wilson said.

"I'm not trying to make us work," Stacy said. "There is no 'us'."

"Then stay away from him," Wilson said.

"Close my eyes and wish it away," Stacy said bitterly. "He likes to do that." She raked her eyes over him, openly staring. "He's converted you," she said. "Trust me, it doesn't work."

"So you're going to go do what? hold his hand? tell him off?" Wilson said angrily. "He's in bad shape. He doesn't need you to make it worse."

"So I should just wait until he's well enough to try again?" she seethed. "You're letting him die."

"You know what?" Wilson said, in a light, 'I'm so angry that I'm not even angry anymore' tone. "You were right. Appadurai has been seeing him and guess what, he's fine. He's not suicidal and he didn't try to kill himself."

"You don't know that!" Stacy exclaimed. "You don't know him like I do."

Wilson laughed bitterly. "Oh, I beg to differ," he said. "You have no idea who he is now."

"I know who he was," Stacy said reflectively.

The tone threw Wilson off and he couldn't keep the curiosity off of his face.

"This isn't the first time," Stacy said quietly. No anger. No bitterness. Just sorrow.

"What?" Wilson snapped, sitting up and placing his hands palm down on the desk. "What did you say?"

"I said this isn't the first time he's tried to kill himself," Stacy said, more loudly this time. "There. I said it."

"When," Wilson said immediately.

"Two weeks after he got home," Stacy said. "Pills. I came home early and he was in the bathroom with his fingers down his throat. He said it was an accident. He'd gotten angry and did it before he could think. He made me promise not to say anything. He said you'd throw him in a psych ward and he didn't want that. He'd just gotten home; I didn't want that for him either." She paused. "Why do you think I kept in touch with you for so long?"

For a moment, all Wilson could do was breathe.

Then he exploded.

"And you never said anything!" he shouted, chest heaving. "Stacy, what the hell! I can't believe it! I can't believe you wouldn't tell me!"

"I couldn't!" she said. "I promised him."

"And that still meant something after you left?" Wilson yelled. "Meant enough to risk his life?"

"He was okay after that," Stacy said. "I watched him closely. If he put so much as a toe out of line, I was gonna call you, but he didn't. He never did it again."

"How do you know?" Wilson growled, nostrils flaring. "If you hadn't gotten home early, you wouldn't have known about it at all."

"I counted his pills after that," Stacy said. "When he slept. I kept a count. He didn't do it again."

"You don't know that!" Wilson yelled. "He could've had more stashed away. He could've used something else. Alcohol. Kitchen cleaner. Any number of household items and believe me he knows which chemicals do what and exactly how much it takes." He jumped to his feet. "I can't _believe_ this!"

"You remember how he suddenly started going to counseling?" Stacy said, no anger in her voice at all now. "_I_ got him to do that. It was my condition for keeping it to myself. And he went. I know he went because I took him and I picked him up and he bitched and moaned the whole time."

"In no way does that absolve you," Wilson shouted. "In no way whatsoever." He put a hand on his forehead, pacing dramatically. "I can't believe you didn't tell me!" he burst out.

"What's done is done," Stacy said. "What's important now is making sure he doesn't do it again."

"Oh, yeah, you did a damn fine job of that, didn't you?" Wilson said bitterly.

"He needed to hear what I told him," she said firmly.

"And if I let you see him now, you'll what, tell him something equally horrible?" Wilson said. "You'll assure that he tries again as soon as he has a chance?" Wilson sucked in as much air as he could. "I can't _believe_ you didn't tell me!"

"I'm sure there are things about him you've never told me," Stacy said dryly. She hadn't expected Wilson to react this severely…but if he'd been any less angry, she'd have thought less of him.

"Not something this big!" Wilson exclaimed. "Not something that could cost him his life!" He stopped pacing and looked at her squarely. "I need to talk to Lisa about this," he said. "You'll excuse me."

Stacy blocked his path. "I need to see him," she said.

"I need to talk to Cuddy first," Wilson said.

"Fine," Stacy said, moving aside. "Do what you have to do."

"You're damn right I will," Wilson said, lunging for the door. He stopped suddenly and stepped closer to her. "Stay away from him," he said, waving a finger in her face. "He can't take this right now." He paused, a horribly bitter smile growing on his face. "You wanted to destroy him?" he said. "You did a great fucking job of it."

He whirled around for the door.

"That's not what I—" Stacy began, but he was gone.

She briefly considered following him, but he was angrier than she'd ever seen him. Later. She would talk to him later. Right now? Well…it was a small hospital. She knew his room number. And once Wilson laid into him about the…incident…earlier, he wouldn't be inclined to listen to anything she had to say.

But Wilson was right. She knew House couldn't handle any more stress than he was already under. He was a horrible patient. And she knew he was sick right now. Waiting to talk to him, on the other hand…

She left Wilson's office without having made her mind up. But she would have to do something soon—that much she knew. She turned toward the elevators, thinking.


	23. Return of the Repressed

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for "The Honeymoon" which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don't sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, Dante, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

**A/N: **Hello. Happy holidays. New chapter for you. There's a longer note at the bottom about the characterization going on here. Please let me know if you like/dislike!

* * *

**Chapter 21: Return of the Repressed**

"I don't know what to do," Wilson said throwing his hands up as he paced Cuddy's office. He was at the end of his rope, totally exasperated. "I mean, I'm gonna talk to him about it—how can I not?—but no matter what he says—I'm at loss."

"Well, Appadurai was going to see him again anyway," Cuddy said calmly. "I can move that up."

"What can she do?" Wilson asked. "Medicate him? He won't take anything—and even if he would, if he's depressed, angry—it's not a chemical problem. He needs to deal with this. I thought he was. Saturday night—he's never been that open with me. But when I go in with this—he'll just shut down again. I don't know what to do!"

Cuddy watched him sympathetically. "Maybe you should let Stacy talk to him," she said. "That's his problem: he hasn't gotten over her."

"I know that," Wilson snapped. He stopped and held out an apologetic hand. "I don't see how she could do anything but make it worse."

Cuddy smiled sympathetically and put a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever happened that night—whether he meant to or not, whether she drove him to it or just triggered something that had been latent—keeping her away is not going to help," she said. "In fact, knowing Stacy, she's probably there right now."

Wilson half-jumped toward the door before Cuddy stopped him.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "This is between them. They need to settle it."

Wilson sighed, defeated. "I just don't see that happening," he said.

"All we can do is be there for him," Cuddy said. "Whatever happens."

Wilson searched her face for something else. Something easier. At length he nodded. "I guess so."

"You don't have to like it," Cuddy said. She smiled at him again. "Come on," she said. "Let's give them time to yell at each other. I'll buy you lunch."

Wilson nodded reluctantly and followed her out of her office.

* * *

House dozed, as deeply asleep as fever, exhaustion, wet lungs, and too many painkillers would allow. He dreamed in snatches of nothing in particular; memories, hopes, fears, doubts.

Suddenly something was different—a tapping?—and he started awake, coughing after the sharp in-take of air. What was…oh. He registered the door opening and tried to settle back down. Nurses, Wilson, Cameron—what next?

He wasn't ready for what he saw.

"Stacy," he said hollowly. She had one of those expressions that meant she was angry at him because he'd made her worry about him. But wasn't Wilson keeping a watch out…? "How'd you slip past the armed guards?" he asked, barely getting the words out before he started coughing.

Stacy drooped visibly, anger disappearing all together. "God, you look awful," she said.

House smirked. "Disappointed?" he said. "All revved up and no ex to yell at? Must really bum you out." He waited a beat. "Why don't you go slobber on darling hubby. That'll cheer you right up."

Stacy drew herself up. House recognized that move. He was about to get it. All of it.

"Oh, she's back," House said as if narrating a fight, "here it comes." He made a show of bracing himself.

"You're damn right," she said. "_What did you think you were doing_!" she yelled.

"This takes me back," House said. He placed his left hand over his heart and pretended to sigh fondly. "Oh, memories."

"Greg," she said. "You did it again. You said you'd never do it again."

That accusatory tone; he hated it. "And you said you'd never love anyone else," he spat. "Don't be so naïve."

"This is completely different!" Stacy shouted angrily.

"Oh, I think the two are very much connected," House said coldly. He held up a hand before Stacy could get a word in. "Before you waste all your energy on me," he said, "tell me. Why are you here? You think giving me the same lecture I've heard millions of times is going to make a difference?"

"I'm here because I still care about you," Stacy said sincerely. "Unfortunately," she added.

"You sure as hell didn't care about me when you left," House said. Anger. He felt angry. God, he didn't want to feel angry. His chest hurt; he needed more painkillers.

"I don't want to get into that," Stacy said tightly. Then her expression softened. "I'm here because as difficult as it is to live in the same state with you, much less the same town, I don't want to see you hurt or…dead."

Goddamn her. _Why_ was she here? "Did you think about that before you came to see me last week?" House asked, indignation getting the better of him and leaking into his voice. "Or before you brought him here in the first place? How did you think I'd react?"

Stacy stepped forward, palms open, almost beseeching. "James said you were doing better," she said. "And I was out of options." She stopped. "Of course you know that," she said angrily. He was doing what he always did, putting all the blame on her. "And besides, you could have refused to treat him."

House sniffed. "Hardly," he said.

Stacy glared angrily at him for a moment before she sighed a little, conceding part of the point. "Maybe I shouldn't have said what I said to you," she said in a soft voice. "But you needed to hear it."

House sniffed again and started coughing. "Like I needed that bear you sent me," he choked out. She started to move toward the water on the tray. Sympathy. Exactly what he needed. He stared her down, took it himself, and knocked it back quickly. She gave him a look that communicated more than words ever could. Anger, pain, fear, concern, love, hatred. House set his jaw; he wouldn't be baited by that.

He slammed the empty cup down. "That was just weird," he added in a voice that wasn't light but wasn't serious either.

Stacy gave him another one of those mixed expressions that meant she was willing to stop fighting if he was willing to stop fighting. "Mark suggested it," she said wryly.

"Figures," House grumbled. This was easy. This was how they used to be. He couldn't stand it, this constant reminder of what he'd lost. In the flesh. God, _why _was she here? He felt anger boil up again.

"Does he know how much you still care about me?" House said spitefully.

"Does he know I'm here, you mean," Stacy said cautiously, trying to sound him out. Had they just gone back to fighting or was the truce still on? She wanted to fight. No, not to fight, but she wanted something. An apology; an assurance that he wouldn't do it again. She didn't want to return to the banter that let both of them conceal everything. "Yes, he knows."

House's face was turning red. "Does he know that I'm the One?" he spat. "That you'll never love him the way you loved me?"

"Mark is an adult," Stacy said, trying for reason. "He was 41 when I met him. He has had other relationships and he knows I have too."

"You didn't answer my question," House said.

"No, I haven't," Stacy said simply. "I don't need to."

"Suppose I go down there and tell him?" House challenged.

Stacy almost smiled. "Well, he won't believe you because he thinks you're insane, but even if he did, it wouldn't be a problem because he's not an insecure little twerp." Now she did smile; just a little; just to sneer. Then she was back to reason and honesty. "He knows I loved you and he knows I love him and he's mature enough not to let an old relationship bother him."

House wasn't having any of her attempt to be civil. "Maybe it should," he said darkly.

"You're suggesting he doesn't love me enough to feel threatened by you?" Stacy said. He was baiting her, she knew, but she couldn't—damn him! "Of course he feels threatened," she said. "Of course he feels angry and uncertain, but Mark can talk about these things. He doesn't hide them until they drive him to swallow a bunch of pills."

"Give him time," House said. "Two or three weeks of in-patient rehab is _great_ for the psyche."

"He's not you," Stacy said viciously, "and you'll never be him."

"Thanks," House said bitterly, "I'm all better now." He paused. Then, unable to contain himself, he lashed out. "Why don't you bring a gun next time?" he said, "save us both some time."

"God, you're so dramatic," Stacy accused, but she couldn't hide a cringe at his words. "Five years. It's been five _years_ and you still haven't dealt with it."

"Yeah, like you're so functional," House scoffed. "You and Wilson should get together. He knows a lot about marrying on the rebound."

"Wilson knows a lot more about cheating," Stacy snipped. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Well, it's not going to happen."

"Because your love is forever?" House sneered. "It always is. Give the guy a few weeks. You know, it's hard to tell how much mobility he'll get back. Even with the best physical therapy—"

"This isn't about Mark!" Stacy exclaimed.

"Then what is it about!" House yelled.

"This is about how you have _got_ to get over this," Stacy said. "I moved on—it was hard, yes, it sucked, but I did it. So can you."

House made a disgusted face and turned away.

"Yes, you can," Stacy continued. "What about Dr. Cameron?" she asked. "She likes you."

"She could be my daughter," House growled.

"What does age mean?" Stacy said dismissively. "Greg. She _likes _you."

He turned back to her angrily, "And I'm supposed to do what? Pass her a note saying 'I like you too, let's go to the dance'? Drag her into a supply closet and fuck her brains out? Marry her? You don't even know her."

"Do you?" she challenged.

"I know enough," he said. "She needs more than I can give her. More than I want to give her."

"So did I," Stacy said.

"So, what, that's why you left?" House said defensively. "You were happy."

"For a while I was," Stacy conceded.

"I made you happy," House said.

She saw desperation in his eyes. He wanted so badly to go back. She couldn't deny that she wanted it too—no. No, she didn't. She was happy with Mark. Greg was…not as worth it as he used to be.

"You made me miserable," she said. "Because you were miserable."

"Whose fault is that?" House growled.

"Would you rather be dead? Is that it?" she said, angry, hurt, afraid. "That's why you're here right now."

"Oh, spare me," House said dramatically.

"No," Stacy said. "You've got to learn to deal with this." She paused. "It sucks, what happened to you. But you've got to accept it."

"That's not the part I can't accept," House said tightly.

Stacy paced a few steps like a caged tiger and turned on him furiously, "You have _got_ to get over this!" she shouted.

"You think I don't know that!" he shouted back and started coughing.

Stacy poured a cup of water and offered it to him.

He stopped coughing and looked up at her through watery eyes. "Go away," he said. "You're not helping."

Stacy stolidly put the water down where he could reach it. "Then no one can help you," she said.

She paused a moment, then went slowly to the door, waiting for him to say something to call her back.

House watched her, his face revealing nothing.

One final glance confirmed that he wasn't going to cooperate today. "You know how to reach me if you want to be civilized about this," she said.

She gave him room to retort. Anything—she wished he'd say anything at all. Anything to keep her here, to talk it out.

He was silent.

She nodded once to herself and left.

* * *

**A/N con't:** As you may have noticed, this isn't terribly different from what has already appeared on the show. I think the show has taken it further and done a much better job of it, but I had it set up, so I had to do something with it. This fic seems to exist in an angrier, less resigned universe than that of the show, and has from the beginning, so I suppose this is in-character for the fic, if not for the show. Such is the risk of writing AU (though my AU is as close to canon as I can make it).

Well. Just wanted to let you know that I know it's somewhat OOC. And also that this is not going to turn into a House/Cam fic – not ever. Re-watch The Honeymoon: doesn't Stacy seem to like the idea that Cameron likes House? That's where her comment in this chapter is coming from. Finally, please remember that this is set directly post-Honeymoon, so everything that has occurred in the second season _hasn't_ occurred in this fic yet—that is, the characters don't know about it, but it will influence the way I write them. They'll still be OOC from time to time, though: I can't seem to avoid that.

Nonetheless, I expect to carry this fic to the end I had in mind for it in April, AU or not. Thanks for coming along for the ride. I hope you've been having fun and I hope to have more of this soon for you. :)


	24. Bending the Truth

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

**Chapter 22: Bending the Truth**

Wilson paused outside of House's room. Lunch with Cuddy had settled him down considerably, but he was still simmering just under a boil. The secrecy; the lies. He expected House to lie to him about little things. House lied about little things to everyone all the time. Oh, no, Wilson recalled with bitter sarcasm, he didn't _lie_, he _bent the truth_. But he didn't bend the truth about big things. Wilson was more hurt than he wanted to admit; it was easier to be angry.

He'd gone to his office after lunch and paced, biting his thumbnail and trying to work out what he would say to House. 'Hey, I just found out that not only were you lying to me this weekend about what you did Friday, but that it's happened before—and knowing you, this probably isn't the second time…. And you couldn't _tell me_ about any of it?' At that point in the projected conversation, he started throwing things at windows because he knew House would try to deny it and he just couldn't take any more of that.

If he'd been anywhere near rational, he might have realized that he'd barely slept in the past two days, and the combined exhaustion and extreme ups and downs had frazzled his emotions to a still-smoking crisp. But he was well beyond rational. And he still didn't have a new trash can to kick.

He stopped himself after a while, realizing that fuming at his office walls wasn't doing anyone good and would probably give him a nasty ulcer if he kept it up, and breathed in and out slowly, counting to ten. He was still ready to blow a blood vessel by the time he'd reached ten, so he started over and went to twenty. That was better but he still felt like yelling until House was deaf, so he did it again, this time going to thirty and slowly clenching and unclenching his muscles.

There.

Now he could leave his office without making a scene.

Wilson took the stairs to the second floor. Any extra steam he could burn off would benefit him in the long run, he imagined.

He stopped at the nurse's station to get an update before he went in. House had been a good boy all morning: sleeping a lot, limiting his inappropriate behavior, and, above all, complying. This worried the three or four of them who knew who he was and what he was normally like, though his labs indicated that he was improving. And he'd had two female visitors. One was Dr. Cameron, whom they liked by popular consensus, and didn't seem to disturb the patient. The other had gotten into a shouting match with the patient that they'd nearly broken up; she was currently disliked. Wilson smirked a little to himself at the account. Nurses were invaluable.

He wondered idly if House would try to lie about Stacy's visit as he opened the door. It kept him from yelling right off.

House glanced at him as he entered and went back to the soap on TV. He was flushed and looked tired, eyelids drooping as if he might drop off any second, a nibbled-at lunch tray of bland foods in front of him.

"Is that all you're going to eat?" Wilson asked as he took his normal chair.

House half-shrugged. "You know the saying," he said in a weary, raspy voice, "feed a cold, starve a fever." He paused for effect. "Or is the other way around?" he asked rhetorically. "I can never remember."

"You need to eat," Wilson said with more hostility in his voice than the situation demanded. House didn't look like he was up for a real argument right now, but Wilson wasn't sure how long he could wait.

"Antibiotics, too, are great for the appetite," House added in a prescriptive tone, eyes still on the television.

"You're not going to get well unless you eat," Wilson nettled. He knew House didn't need to hear this but he felt so much like yelling that he needed this substitute.

"And then there are pain killers, which are also great for the appetite," House said. His eyes blinked slowly. He was barely awake.

"You really do need to eat."

"Let's not forget pain itself," House said, entering a sleepy lecture mode now. "Good dose of pain is just the thing to perk up the taste buds."

Wilson crossed his arms quickly and angrily, and looked away. "Fine. Starve."

House didn't notice his body language. "Actually I was thinking very seriously about taking a nap," he said.

"Go right ahead," Wilson said, crossing his arms more tightly, speaking through almost-clenched teeth. "Don't let _me_ stop you."

"You know I can't sleep in public," House said, still oblivious to Wilson's annoyance. "Where have you been, by the way?" he asked, looking over at Wilson for the first time since the quick glance earlier. "I was beginning to get lonely." His head lolled back to its original position and his eyes fell shut. "Sleeping, I hope. That's a great idea."

Wilson frowned. This wasn't right in a too-familiar way. He stood up and put his hand on House's forehead.

"Mmm, feels good," House murmured at the cool skin.

He opened his eyes but not to look at Wilson. The wall, Wilson realized, he'd been looking at the wall, not the television.

"Spiked about ten minutes ago, since you're going to ask," House said. "Thought I was going to shiver to death. But they'd have caught it soon enough and it really is putting me to sleep, so don't bitch."

Wilson left wordlessly and returned with a nurse. House appeared to be asleep.

"'Lo, Audrey," he murmured when he felt a BP cuff on his upper arm.

"Hello, Dr. House," Andrea said. She exchanged a brief smile with Wilson.

"How's your shift?" House asked, keeping his eyes closed.

"Moving right along," she said. "I really wish you'd tell us when this happens."

"Yeah, well, I'm a sucker for a dramatic moment," he mumbled.

"You're going to give Dr. Wilson a heart attack," she said.

"Jimmy'll live," House answered.

"Open for me," she said.

House obeyed, opening his mouth wide. Wilson shook his head. Sometimes House was a complete mystery to him.

"Am I breaking any floor records yet?" House asked when the thermometer was removed.

"Not yet," Andrea said, "but you're trying awfully hard."

"Do what I can to keep it interesting," he murmured and coughed a little.

Wilson frowned again and exchanged a displeased look with Andrea, both of which went unnoticed by House who still had his eyes closed.

"Try not to give us too much excitement," she said and patted his arm.

"Can't make any promises," House said.

She smiled a worried smile at Wilson, who returned the expression, and went toward the door.

"Bye Andie," House said.

"Bye Dr. House."

Wilson waited for her to leave.

"You know that's not her name," he said.

"Yeah," House answered. No mischief, no malice. Just a simple answer. It was like working with a young pediatric patient.

Wilson couldn't help himself at this vision of House as a child: he cracked a smile.

"Okay, sit up for me, buddy," Wilson said, patting House's shoulder.

He was amazed when House didn't argue.

"Need you to open your eyes," he said and rattled a cup with two Ibuprofen in it.

Again, House did as he was told, opening sleepy eyes to see a hand offering him a ubiquitous plastic cup. He swallowed the caplets and the cup of water he was offered without comment.

Wilson was thoroughly weirded out by now but happy to have a compliant patient in House for once.

He put a hand on House's shoulder and positioned his stethoscope. "Breathe in," he instructed.

And just like that, House did. It was like being God.

Wilson listened to his lungs and the coughs he couldn't keep back.

"Does that hurt?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"Lower four true ribs. False ribs. Lower right quadrant."

Wilson smiled. Textbook.

"The nature of the pain?"

"Dull and constant."

"Ever sharp?"

"Ribs: when the cough reflex is triggered."

It was like talking to a computer.

"Lower right quadrant?"

"Sometimes. When I move."

"Overall pain rating?"

"Five."

"Good."

"No it's not."

Wilson smiled a little again. House was still there.

"You can lay back now."

He did, carefully. But his awareness of the outside world wasn't all there: he moved robotically.

Wilson shook his head and returned to his chair.

"Sputum cultures should be back in a few hours," he said after a while.

House said nothing. Eyes closed, face lax, again he appeared to be asleep. But his breathing was too controlled.

"Stacy came to see you," Wilson said. If he was asleep, that was fine, but if was awake…in this current state…Wilson knew this was his best chance to get the truth out of House, ethically or not.

He gave House an opportunity to respond.

Nothing.

"What did you argue about?" he asked in an even, light, almost conversational tone.

House drew in a breath. "Same old same," he murmured.

Wilson paused. Then, in the same modulated tone, said, "She came to see me first. Do you know what she told me?"

House was quiet again. Either he was asleep now or he couldn't muster the energy to respond to a rhetorical question—or he was bored by the question.

Wilson felt anger and hurt building up. He couldn't keep the emotions out of his voice when he spoke now.

"She told me that…before you split up…she came home one day and…you were making yourself sick…because you'd swallowed a bunch of pills…. That you tried to kill yourself."

Goddamnit, he didn't need tears stinging his eyes right now. He was angry; he wasn't sad. Dammit. He wiped his face quickly, discreetly, shamefully, though House still had his eyes closed and there were no other witnesses.

"She's lying," House breathed.

"You didn't swallow a bunch of pills?" Wilson asked, angry at himself for being weak, angry at House for denying it, and angry that House might be right, but he still had tears in his voice.

"No, that part's true."

"Then what part of that is a lie?"

"Didn't try to kill myself," House murmured.

"Oh, I get it," Wilson said viciously, "you lost count again."

Wilson had to wait a moment while House coughed weakly.

"No," he rasped.

"Then why'd you do it?"

House coughed again and cursed under his breath, eyes closed.

"I was angry," he said when he could speak. "We've been over this."

"Angry at what?" Wilson demanded.

"Everything," House whispered.

Wilson paused, aware that he was harassing a sick man who needed rest—the very volume and tone difference between their two voices, Wilson's angry and barely controlled, House's barely there at all, told the whole story—but he had to say these things and it was better to say them now when House was out of it and honest for a change (or at least less deceptive). Ethically this was wrong. But he had to do it.

"She said you promised you'd never do it again," he said. "Did you mean it?"

"Yeah," he breathed.

"Then what happened?"

Wilson could hear him pausing. Was he thinking? Was he stalling? Was he that tired?

"She came back," he said at last.

"Is that all?" Wilson prompted.

House breathed in and out evenly, almost asleep. "No," he whispered.

"What else was there?"

Wilson wasn't angry any longer. He was curious. He was hanging on House's every word. He needed to know these answers.

House breathed quietly. "Lots…of other reasons."

Wilson could hear the effort this was taking right now. But he couldn't stop asking.

"Like what?"

"I don't know," House sighed. "I'm tired." He coughed weakly again.

"Did you intend to kill yourself?"

Wilson's stomach clenched while he waited for House to answer. Whatever he said, it had to be the truth.

"No," House whispered.

For a moment, all Wilson could feel was relief. Then he remembered never to fully trust anything House said.

"You were just angry again?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He wanted to sigh, but that would break the tension in the room. He needed to the tension: it kept the conversation going.

"I find that hard to believe," he said, wondering what House would say to that.

"Stop grilling me, Jimmy, I'm tired," House said in one expelled breath, the words spilling over each other to get out of his mouth.

Wilson fidgeted for a moment. He'd let this go on much longer than it should have. But he wasn't finished.

"This conversation isn't over," he said.

"Can't talk anymore," House said in another expelled breath.

"Okay. Go to sleep."

House nodded slightly and Wilson saw tension go out of his body. Odd. He hadn't seemed tense. Wilson had thought he'd barely been paying attention. And why did he suddenly need Wilson's permission? The exchange was so strange…Wilson felt like he'd done something very wrong…but it had to be done, he told himself.

He sat quietly for a while, mulling the situation over. Then he checked his watch: just after one o'clock. He shook his head and stood up. House couldn't handle a battery of liver tests today.

He left for the nurse's station to call Cuddy, opening and closing the door quietly, hoping House would sleep for a few hours at least. He'd need more than that to get his head straight again.


	25. Old Alliances Renewed

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** Huge thanks to everyone who's reviewed this fic and the others. Reviews make me writer faster. :)

* * *

**Chapter 23: Old Alliances Renewed **

Wilson called Cuddy from the nurse's station. She agreed immediately to reschedule House's appointment for the next morning and added that she expected an update as soon as anything changed. He couldn't tell her about the surreal conversation he'd had with House over the phone; it wasn't right. So he agreed. He knew that something would change before he was ready to speak to anyone about this…but she deserved to know what House had said. He knew she wouldn't question his methods—in fact, that actually made it worse.

He walked to the end of the corridor and leaned against a wooden support beam, tilting his head back against the wall, eyes closed. He smelled coffee and sighed a little, quietly. People sitting on benches in this place usually had coffee with them, no matter what time of day it was. He could really use some coffee.

"How's he doing?"

Wilson nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice.

"Sorry," she said when he found the source of the voice. She was sitting on one of the ubiquitous benches in the hall. She offered him a cup of coffee. "Got you some if you want it."

It took him a moment to process everything. He didn't know what to do or say—or even how to react. He wanted to feel angry at her, but it wasn't in him to feel angry right now. The only thing he could think to do was to accept.

"Yeah," he said distractedly and sat down next to her. He sipped the warm beverage quietly, forgetting she'd asked him a question. She let him sit.

"This is still hot," he observed. He turned to her. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"Because you're even more predictable than he is," Stacy said with a smile. Just as quickly as it had come, her smile faded. "And I knew that whatever you had to say to him…it wouldn't go well."

Wilson sniffed a little and leaned forward, elbow on his thigh, to rub his face. The hot liquid was only making him more tired right now.

"Actually, it went okay," he said, talking to the floor. He ran his finger around the rim of the cup's protective lid. "He didn't try to deny it or avoid it or lie about it."

Stacy smiled grimly. "How high is his fever?" she asked.

Wilson looked up at her: _how'd you know that?_

"He's only honest when he's running a fever," she explained. "It has to be high. And if he was honest about _that_…" Her eyes asked the question this time.

"It's not as bad as it could be," Wilson said. "He's still tired and out of it from last night's surgery." He sipped the coffee. "Cultures haven't come back yet. He's responding fairly well to the antibiotics we're giving him, but he's in such bad shape that even a cold would've hit him harder than usual."

Talking to Stacy about House's condition over a tired cup of coffee felt so natural… Wilson shook himself. No. This wasn't the same situation. They weren't on the same team anymore.

"I was sorry to hear about it," Stacy said genuinely. She saw Wilson's eyebrow quirk. "I know that doesn't mean anything…but I was still sorry."

"Is that why you came to see me?" he asked the lid of his coffee.

"Couldn't go see him without preparing you first," she answered.

"You could've told me what you were doing," he said. If he'd had it in him, he would've sounded angry. As it was, he just sounded tired. "The nurses said they were about to break the door down when you left."

Stacy smiled sardonically. "They didn't look too happy."

Wilson shrugged. "It's their floor," he said. "They don't like disruption."

Stacy paused, giving the subject time to change. "He needed to hear it," she said with muted conviction.

"Could've picked a better time," Wilson responded. But he couldn't add the edge he wanted to add. He never was any good at fighting with Stacy anyway.

"Two days was a hell of a long wait," Stacy said. If Wilson had been looking at her, he would've seen one of her soft-yet-steely expressions. "You forget that I still care about him."

"Funny way of showing it," Wilson mumbled into his coffee.

"I can't help the way I feel," Stacy said. She too wasn't confrontational. Just tired. And this was all too eerily familiar to her as well. "Believe me, I wish I could." She paused. "And if I'd known he was inches from trying it again, I wouldn't have said anything last week. But it's done. There's no undoing it. The only thing we can do now is try to help him."

Wilson snorted. "It's that simple, is it?" he said.

The corner of her mouth quirked. "I know," she said. "He won't come around until he's ready, but we—or I at least—can't just sit around and do nothing." She smiled a little. "So he really didn't try to deny it?" she asked.

"He didn't deny taking a handful of pills," Wilson answered, glancing up and back at her, still sitting forward with his chin in his hand, "but he did deny that he was trying to kill himself."

Stacy's expression asked for him to elaborate.

"He said he was just angry, that he'd done it on impulse," Wilson explained, "which is the same thing he's been saying about what happened Friday night." He sighed. "I want to believe him, but I have trouble imagining he's ever done anything on pure impulse in his life."

"I don't know," Stacy said shaking her head. "I wanted to believe him five years ago—I did believe him. God knows I wouldn't have kept it to myself if I'd thought it was anything other than an honest mistake."

Wilson sat silently for a moment, absorbing her words. After a while, he asked in a halting voice, "Do you—believe him now? That it was just an impulse?"

Stacy pursed her lips and sat forward, thinking. "He's a lot less impulsive now than he was then," she said. "I can see it in the way he moves. He has to know where he's going now because if he doesn't, he risks hurting himself, which would call attention to him and he hates that." She paused. "He's always been a planner. Every action was meticulously planned, though he never admitted it. Now…with nothing but work…" she sighed, shaking her head, "of course he thinks about it. Of course he does. He never could sleep—what else does he do at night? Wait—" she said with a tired smile, "don't answer that." Wilson smiled back. She became serious again. "He would never do something like this twice unless he intended to do it. But whether he intended to kill himself or just get really messed up—with drugs, with the fight, either, both, I don't know—" She shook her head again. "I sincerely hope he's telling the truth and he really didn't intend to hurt himself. But I know that isn't true."

Wilson sat still. She knew so much more about him than he did on a subject like this. She knew what he would do. Hell, she'd known him, Wilson, so well that she'd been waiting with coffee.

"So what do we do?" Wilson asked after a while. He barely managed to stifle a yawn. The coffee wasn't working yet.

"_You_ are going to find a quiet place and take a long nap," Stacy instructed. "Lisa says you're wearing yourself out. And if Greg's running a high fever, he'll have to sleep it off. That's the fastest way to get it to go down. _I'm_ going to talk to Lisa. I'll tell her what he said to you."

"No," Wilson said between another yawn, "I'll do that." He took another sip. "Soon as this kicks in I'll be fine."

Stacy smiled in that knowing way that always gave Wilson the feeling that the second shoe was about to drop.

"What?" he asked.

"It's not going to kick in," she said. "It's decaf."

Wilson shook his head with a sniffed laugh. "You're worse than he is."

She winked at him and stood up. "Go to sleep, James, before you pass out and they put you in the same room with him."

Wilson fake-winced. "That's quite a threat," he said with a smile.

"It's not an idle threat either," Stacy said. "I don't think Lisa is above it."

"Now you're starting to scare me," Wilson said.

Stacy gave him a look that communicated her intention to act on the threat.

"All right, all right," Wilson said with another yawn as he stood up. "But someone should be in there with him." He stopped and pointed a finger. "And I don't mean you. No offense, but—"

"I know," Stacy interrupted. "He needs rest."

Wilson nodded carefully, trying to determine if she was being completely forthright. "As long as we're on the same page," he said. "Tell Cuddy I'm ordering another sitter for him."

Stacy made a face. "He won't like that."

Wilson shrugged. "It's his fault."

Stacy gave him a conceding nod. "Three hours minimum," she said as he started back toward the nurse's station.

"Tyrant," he said without turning back.

Stacy's smile as she watched him go faded quickly. She was glad to be on good terms with Wilson again. If they let House divide them, they wouldn't be able to help him. But, she reflected as she turned toward the elevator, she had no idea how they would even begin to do that.


	26. Mother Cuddy

**Title:** Some Days Are Worse Than Others  
**By:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. Ducks involved in later chapters.  
**Rating:** This chapter is T, TV-14, PG-13, etc.  
**Warnings:** WIP, language.  
**Spoilers:** Season One.  
**Summary:** An alternate ending for "The Honeymoon" based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Thanks for the reviews. :)

* * *

**Chapter 24: Mother Cuddy**

House slowly became aware of rustling and low voices talking near him. Fingers on his wrist followed by pressure on his upper left arm kept him from dropping back off immediately.

He listened idly, not terribly interested in what they were saying because he was still so tired and wanted to sleep, but one of them said something and—and that was Cuddy. Damn. He didn't want Cuddy talking about him. He was tempted to listen further but Cuddy was asking a nurse questions…about him…boring questions…very boring questions…but he couldn't go back to sleep knowing Cuddy was around…it bothered him. He needed to tell Cuddy to get the hell out of here and let him sleep, so reluctantly he pried his eyes open.

The room was dim, soft light coming from the lamp next to the bed and late afternoon light coming from the window, but it hurt his eyes. His head felt fuzzy and he was shivery and just…bad. What? Oh. His thermostat was still off. Great.

Cuddy was fiddling with one of the bags hanging from the IV stand and the nurse was noting his blood pressure. Cuddy was talking quietly about something. Having his eyes open and dealing with the sensory information they provided _and_ listening to quiet voices was too much to do at once.

Cuddy noticed him squinting through red eyes at her and smiled.

"Hey," she said softly. "How are you feeling?"

House wasn't listening. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

His voice was raspy and the question came out in a harsh whisper. He heard himself and briefly considered clearing his throat, but that might upset his lungs and he was fairly comfortable right now; he didn't want to push it.

"Sputum cultures came back," Cuddy explained. "_Streptococcus pneumoniae_, but a more resistant type than we usually see. And you're still running a fever. The Levaquin isn't working as well as it did last night. This is a loading dose of Vancomycin."

"Lovely," House whispered.

He swallowed and coughed, becoming aware for the first time since he'd woken up of his body. Pain in his ribs and abdomen and head when he coughed, but if he hadn't felt it before… His skin felt like it was covered with layers and layers of dried sweat. His fever must have broken for a while as he slept and then rose again. Disgusting. He could really use a bath, but he didn't want to mention that in front of Cuddy and he didn't want to have to stay awake for one either. And it was humiliating, but humiliation wasn't at the top of his list of grievances right now.

The nurse offered him a cup of water with a straw when the fit of coughing subsided, but he shook his head slightly. He was freezing; cold water running down his esophagus and into his stomach seemed like the worst form of torture. He grimaced at the thought, shivering.

"Pain, House?" Cuddy asked.

"No," he answered, face twisting into another grimace.

He wasn't in pain; he was just uncomfortable and exhausted. The gown had bunched up under his sore back, the pillow was too far under his shoulders to support his neck comfortably, he was unbelievably cold and slightly dizzy, breathing shallowly, his head and eyes ached, his back ached, he felt dirty, the sheets felt dirty, and he was weary to the bones. The way he felt wasn't anything to smile about.

But in Cuddy's experience, House only let his face twist like that when he was in pain.

"Don't lie," she admonished. Because he would lie to avoid appearing weak.

House closed his eyes against the light, face still contorted. "Not lying," he mumbled.

She gave him a stern look, but he didn't notice.

He wanted to rub the bridge of his nose and his eyes, but lifting one of his arms was too much trouble. "Where's the liver doc?" he asked.

"Rescheduled," Cuddy answered, "tomorrow morning."

"What? Why?" House coughed hard before she could answer. "I don't want to stay in this godforsaken place any longer than I have to," he said as he struggled to take in air.

Cuddy simply smiled sadly and shook her head. He was so stubborn, and sometimes so blind.

"You need to rest," she said gently.

House grunted in disagreement.

Cuddy picked up a plastic cup and offered it to him.

He glanced at it suspiciously, but didn't move to take it.

"Neurontin," she explained. "Six hundred."

House was tired enough and felt bad enough that he let his head fall back, shutting his eyes, and groaned. "Don't do this to me, Cuddy."

"You're the one who wants to leave," Cuddy responded. "This is your way out."

House's face contorted again, mashed against the pillow. "That stuff doesn't work," he said.

"We'll supplement it with oral opiods up to 1,800 milligrams at six hundred per day," Cuddy said. "That's only two more days—and you need that much time to kick the pneumonia. If it's not doing anything for you by then, we'll try something else."

"Let's skip to the something else," House muttered.

"You're going to give this another chance," Cuddy said.

"It's snake oil," House mumbled.

"It's your only option," Cuddy said sternly.

House watched her through dull, half-lidded eyes. She wasn't blinking. Damn. Not having any energy to protest, House took the cup and swallowed the pills. His throat was dry. He needed the water too. Crap.

He shivered as it ran into his stomach and made a half-hearted effort to pull the linen up to his chin while he tried to ball up on his right side.

"Cold," he mumbled.

Back to both of them, House didn't see the concerned glance Cuddy exchanged with the nurse.

"Go away," he said when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll get you another 400 of Ibuprofen and some warm milk, okay?" Cuddy said, speaking more to the nurse than she was to him.

House grunted.

He fell into a lull of silence for a moment, then felt slight pressure on his back.

"Breathe in," Cuddy instructed.

House breathed normally, not willing to upset his lungs.

"Deeper," Cuddy said.

He continued to breathe normally.

"House…"

Grabbing the pillow with his left hand, he sucked in as much air as he could and immediately started coughing. Cuddy listened to him struggle. Bacteria had gotten deep into his lungs. They would start filling with fluid if they weren't cleared soon.

"I'm going to give you a few hours to rest and then I want another chest x-ray," Cuddy said, coming around the bed so she could see him.

"Great," House whispered hoarsely.

She stood looking down at him with a vaguely sad, pitying expression, wondering why he did things like this to himself, when he spoke again.

"What?" he asked, eyes still closed, sensing not only her presence but her desire to say something he didn't want to hear. Whatever it was, he hoped she said it quickly and left.

"I heard Stacy came to see you," Cuddy said softly.

"So?" House rasped. "Say whatever you've got to say and get out of here. I'm tired."

"Do you remember talking to Wilson after she saw you?" Cuddy asked gently.

"I'm not going to play games right now," House whispered, trying not to breathe so he wouldn't cough. Didn't she realize he was in agony right now and needed to sleep through it?

Cuddy took a deep breath. "Stacy told us you've done this before. Wilson said he spoke to you and you said it was an accident." She stopped, waiting for him to confirm or deny.

He was silent, his eyes closed, but she could tell by his shallow breathing that he wasn't asleep.

"House," she said.

"What?"

"Was it really an accident?"

House tried to sigh angrily but ended up coughing instead. "I'm going to get that tattooed on my forehead," he said when he could speak again. "Yes. Go away."

"Accidents like this don't happen twice," Cuddy said quietly.

"What do you want me to say?" House asked.

"I just want to know what we can do to help you," she answered.

"Right now you can go away and let me sleep," House said.

"You need to let us know what we can do," she said.

"I just told you," House answered.

"With your larger issues," Cuddy responded.

"I'm fine."

"If you need help, you need help," Cuddy said. "There's no shame in that."

"This isn't news to me," House said.

"If you need to talk, any one of us is here," Cuddy pressed.

"What if I need to sleep?" House grumbled. "Can all of you not be here?"

Cuddy pressed her lips together, annoyed that he had a valid point.

House closed his eyes, happy that he'd finally gotten his point across, hoping she would finally take the hint and leave. He waited. She wasn't leaving. Dammit. He was too tired for this. Time to fall back on an old tactic.

He made a half-hearted effort to sit up. "Where's the—" He couldn't come up with the word as pain lanced through him and he found himself on his side again. "I need to pee," he exhaled.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Nice try."

House was wincing but surprised enough by her comment that he glanced over at her. She wasn't supposed to know and he really did need to pee. "What?" Then he realized what she was saying and ran his hand along the blanket, feeling for what he knew was there. "Crap."

Cuddy wore one of her sarcastic smirks that managed to be a smirk without being triumphant.

House glared at her and shut his eyes again. He was out of ideas. He'd have to complain until she got tired of it and left. "You're babysitting me now?" he asked.

"You wish you were that important," Cuddy snipped.

House sighed shallowly, not putting much air into it. "I can't sleep with you hovering," he pointed out impatiently.

Cuddy had a retort ready when the nurse returned with the milk and Ibuprofen. She nodded her thanks to the nurse and took the two cups.

"Okay," she said, "take this and I'll leave you alone."

House opened his eyes and glanced up at her, suspicious of such a simple condition, hoping she wasn't yanking his chain. He carefully pushed himself up on his elbow and took the small plastic cup from her, tossing the pills into his mouth. He took the milk when it was offered and chugged it. As much as he didn't want to, he had to admit that the warm liquid running down his throat and settling into his stomach was nothing short of heavenly.

Cuddy took the empty cup from him and watched him lie back and close his eyes. He was such a child. Usually when she thought that she was thinking about the negative aspects of children—the tantrums, the stubborn will, the insistence on seeing right and wrong so rigidly—but right now it was his child-like vulnerability that occupied her. She had to fight the overwhelming urge to brush his hair back. He seemed to need a gentle touch very badly right now. He had a mother, she knew that—she'd met his mother: she was a good mother and a capable woman—but there were times when he really seemed to need a motherly gesture. Suddenly she knew what this reminded her of: the way Stacy would make that very gesture when he was here five years ago. That was what House really needed—to trust another person enough to let her (or him: Cuddy could see Wilson in this role, though it would never work out in her estimation) touch him when he was vulnerable. She knew he lived his life the way he did in order to avoid that very situation, but maybe some day he would get over himself and allow happiness back into his life. She hoped he would…if he would just stop struggling against it…

"Go away," House groaned.

Right. He was still struggling against it.

"All right," she said. "See you in a few hours."

It was a testament to how bad House felt that he let her have the last word. She frowned as she turned off the light and called the sitter who was waiting outside into the room. This damage, at least, she could fix. She stopped at the nurses' station to make sure they called her immediately if he reacted to the antibiotic or had any other trouble, then she went back to her office and tried to think about something other than House for a while. Accounting memos had never been so appealing.


	27. Sucker

Disclaimers, etc. in the preceding chapters.

* * *

**Chapter 25: Sucker**

Piercing screams from his pager jolted Wilson awake. Nearly twenty years of being on call had him sitting up and his pager in his hand before his brain clicked on. When it did, he was on his feet and dashing out of his office toward the second floor before his coordination had fully returned. He smashed into three walls and nearly tripped over himself on the stairs more times than he could count.

_911. House_.

When he arrived, Cuddy had her fingers on House's neck and was yelling orders over the shrill whine of the heart monitor. House was unconscious and pale, head lolled limply to the side, his sunken, sallow chest bared and ready for saving shock of the defibrillator.

"More atropine," Cuddy said over the noise of the monitor.

Yelling but still professional, she was entirely too calm for Wilson's nerves. She should be frantic.

"How long?" he asked.

She glanced at the clock. "Six minutes."

Wilson's insides fell out of him and hit the floor.

Cuddy returned to the code, barking out another order.

Wilson watched helplessly as she shocked him over and over again. He felt each shock, each electrical current running futilely through House's skin, fat, muscle, bone, and marrow into the fist-shaped organ that refused to pump.

There was nothing that he could…

…nothing…

Time folded into itself. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty.

No. Not that long. It had only been a minute. It had only felt like a minute.

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said, though the two charcoal streaks of never-run mascara on her face said it for her. "Time of death—"

Wilson felt himself falling, falling, falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Pounding.

Pounding.

Pound—

Wilson jolted awake, confused, sweating, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest.

Pounding, pounding—knocking. That was knocking.

"Come in?" he said breathlessly, doing his best to sit up.

It was a dream, he told himself, just a dream. House wasn't dead. Not dead. Not dead.

He knew this dream where Cuddy ran the code and he fell backwards infinitely at the end. This dream had haunted him every night for almost a month after Cuddy really did run a code on House. An extra surge of adrenaline fired along his nerves.

The door to his office opened and he returned to the present, focusing again on calming himself down.

Stacy's face appeared in the light from the hallway. He couldn't help feeling for a moment that someone up there was trying to tell him something.

"Hey," she said. "Sorry to interrupt. Cuddy needs you. He's being difficult."

Even in the darkness of his office, she could tell that he was agitated. "You okay?"

Wilson nodded once, exhaling a controlled breath.

"Bad dream."

He got to his feet, shaking off the last of the dream. Stacy's face told him she understood more than he wanted her to about what he'd just experienced.

"What's the problem?" he asked, reaching for his shirt and lab coat.

"He's being a stubborn ass," Stacy responded.

Wilson shot her a look: _very helpful_.

She rolled her eyes. "Some procedure he doesn't want," she said. "Sound familiar?"

She made a face: this wasn't something she wanted to be reminded of either.

"She thinks you'll be able to reason with him."

"Details?" Wilson asked impatiently as he fumbled with his shirt buttons.

"She didn't say," Stacy replied. "But she didn't sound worried. Just annoyed."

Wilson nodded and decided to leave the last buttons open. If people talked about his unkempt appearance, whatever. This dream always felt like a premonition. He needed to know that it wasn't one.

* * *

"See that number, House?" Cuddy asked angrily. "Can you still read?"

House did his best to glare at her. He didn't need to see it: he could feel it. But he didn't want to…something…all the same. Dizzy, he closed his eyes.

"See how it was 91 and now it's 89?" Cuddy continued.

House coughed painfully into the oxygen mask and fixed dull eyes on her when he could open them again.

"Put me back on real meds," he whispered.

He'd been feeling the difference in the level of pain control for over two hours. In a way, he mused, it was good that he wasn't getting enough oxygen. His brain couldn't register pain as well as it normally did.

"I can't believe you'd rather suffocate than…" Cuddy trailed off and began grinding her teeth.

House smiled thinly with the ease of one who didn't have a full grasp on reality but retained control over his part in it.

"Then you'll have to wait till I pass out."

"Won't be long," Cuddy quipped.

He took a long time to blink, registering that cool, closed lids made his burning, salty eyes so happy.

"Stuff doesn't work," he rasped.

"It hits 85 and I'm intubating you," she said, managing to keep enough annoyance in her voice that the fear couldn't get through.

"Woman penetrates man," he wheezed, "kinky."

"House, you're going to let me—"

Cuddy stopped mid-threat at the sound of the door opening and a weary-looking Wilson coming through it.

House looked from him to her. "_That's_ your big plan?" he gasped.

Wilson glanced at House, saw that he was awake and baiting Cuddy, and turned his attention to her.

She stepped closer to confer with him. "Patient Dingus is sating at 89. He needs suctioning or he will drown in his own idiocy. He refuses to consent to the procedure."

Wilson glanced past her to House who was watching them with a tired expression. He turned back to her.

"How much fluid?" Wilson asked. "Could he bring it up on his own?"

Cuddy shook her head. "Chest x-rays revealed two more cracked ribs. The old injuries are worse, too."

She nodded to the light board behind him where House's new x-rays were displayed.

Wilson did a double take at the x-ray. House would need more than two days and a healthy ribcage to hack all of that up.

"The Levaquin isn't working," Wilson observed.

Cuddy nodded. "Started him on Vancomycin a few hours ago. Temp's down to 100 and the labs show improvement."

"Get a room," House called weakly.

Wilson's attention drifted past Cuddy again to House. He placed his hands on his hips in what he considered his most authoritative pose.

"You always have a reason for doing what you do," Wilson said. "What is it this time?"

House's eyes shifted to Cuddy. When Wilson followed his gaze and found himself looking at Cuddy too, she sighed.

"I started him on Neurontin," she said. "He's sulking."

"I want my meds back," House wheezed.

Wilson examined him again, then turned back to Cuddy. "Have you got someone to watch him?" he asked. _We need to talk outside_, his eyes added.

Cuddy said nothing, leaving to grab a nurse.

"Make-out session," House rasped with approval. "Can I watch?"

"You know you're going to have this done," Wilson said.

House searched Wilson's eyes. _You know I have to get something out of it_, he conveyed silently.

"No promises," Wilson said.

House tried to make him promise via death ray glare but he just couldn't keep his eyes open.

* * *

"Sorry," Wilson said as soon as they were out of the room.

Cuddy held up her hands to stop any further apology.

"I know," she said, "he has to think someone's on his side."

Wilson inclined his head in agreement.

"How fast are his sats dropping?" he asked.

"Too fast," Cuddy replied, her expression chagrined as though she blamed House for the build-up in his lungs.

"Well," Wilson said with an exhaled sigh, "he'll pass out soon enough."

Cuddy searched his eyes; the wry smile on his face. And, like a cut marionette, slumped forward with a sigh.

"He's just so stubborn," she said in exasperation. Then her tone became as wry as Wilson's smile. "So am I."

Now Wilson did smile. "You need each other to be stubborn," he said. "He'd be lost without you to squabble with."

Cuddy smiled too. "You're right," she said. "And it's a good sign that he's causing trouble."

Wilson let the moment go on just long enough before he fell back to the medicine. "Has he given you a pain rating recently?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Thirty-four. One-hundred and six. Negative nineteen. Take your pick."

Wilson sniffed a laugh.

Cuddy consulted her watch. "He's due for more in an hour."

Wilson nodded. "He'll need it after the nurses are done with him."

He paused to contemplate. Then: "He'd give in right now for 25 milligrams IV."

"He's going to give in anyway," Cuddy grumbled.

Seeing Wilson's 'stop being like him' expression, she relented.

"Fine," she said tiredly.

Wilson nodded shortly and reached for the door.

Cuddy watched him slide the door open, careful to remain out of House's line of sight.

Inside, Wilson motioned to the nurse who was sitting with House that he wanted to talk to House alone. She looked happy to be getting out of the room.

Wilson watched House watch her go: he'd been up to something.

Wilson leaned against the wall nonchalantly. "She's going to stick the catheter down your esophagus and it won't be an accident."

House's right shoulder moved an inch as he tried to shrug. "She'd have to clean it up," he said. "Probably me too."

Wilson conceded the point with a jog of his head and pushed himself off of the wall only to drop into the chair next to the bed.

He watched House struggle to breathe for a moment—just to annoy him. House did his best to ignore Wilson's gaze.

"How do you think this is going to end?" Wilson asked.

House tried to glare.

"Smart money says you'll be unconscious in fifteen minutes."

House's fever-red eyes flickered to Wilson. Underneath the white, haggard countenance of a man who couldn't breathe properly, House looked perturbed.

"She sent you to negotiate?"

"She's willing to move your next opiate hit up an hour."

House's attempt to narrow his eyes in suspicion ended in a very long, very wasted blink.

"She couldn't come herself?"

"She's sharpening her stilettos at the moment. Leave a message at the beep."

House tried to narrow his eyes again. When he pried them back open, he asked, "How do I know you're on my side?"

Wilson shrugged nonchalantly, sprawled out in the chair. "I'm not on your side. I'm on my side. Your little tiff interrupted my nap."

"If she would just put me back on the real stuff and let me leave…" House grumbled.

"Your leg would regenerate and lollipops and kittens would fall from the sky," Wilson said. He caught himself. "Or something more your style. Bricks and mortar. Hemlock."

"Stop, you're making me weep," House gasped. The satiric effect was all but lost beneath the strain of speaking.

Wilson paused to consider him, then glanced at the television. Negotiating with House was an art.

"I could probably get her to give you fifteen intravenously," he tossed off.

"Fifty," House countered immediately, as if he'd known it was coming.

Wilson shook his head at the television, doing his best to sound bored. "No way."

He could practically hear the little rusty squeaks of the wheels turning in House's overheated head.

"Thirty."

House coughed involuntarily: a thick, wet, sludgy sound like rocks scraping concrete.

Wilson waited until he settled down, itching to check the pulse oximeter reading. He tried to keep it off of his face, not wholly succeeding, but he had an easier time keeping House oblivious than he normally did since House was not long for the conscious world.

"Twenty," he offered.

"Thirty," House croaked.

Wilson waited a moment. On some level, this was really about getting House to give up some of that control he so selfishly hoarded.

"I don't believe she'll go higher than twenty." He said it as if he were stroking an invisible beard.

_Wait for it_, he coached himself, attention still on the TV, _wait for it_…

Finally he heard a minute sigh.

"Twenty-five."

"Done."

Wilson snapped the word off so quickly that House was startled. He settled down quickly and smiled in a dazed, happy way. "Sucker."

Wilson sniffed and got to his feet. "You're one to talk."

House just grunted and let his eyes close.

The sat reading stared out at Wilson: 87.

He wasted no time getting to Cuddy.

To his complete lack of surprise, she was ready and waiting with a nurse and a syringe. Wilson nodded them in.

House kept his eyes closed and no one spoke.

When they saw him visibly relax, Cuddy and Wilson left to plan the next phase of the battle.


	28. For Better or Worse

Disclaimers, etc. in the preceding chapters.

* * *

**Chapter 26: For Better or For Worse**

Hours later, after everyone had retired for some kind of break from House's chicanery—Wilson to check up on his actual patients, Cuddy to check up on her always-fussy baby of a hospital, and Stacy to check up on Mark—House found himself waking up slowly, able to breathe, not in too much pain, and alone save for a beefy boy in his late teens reading a Robert Heinlein novel.

A glance at the monitor next to his bed told him that he should be feeling better because he _was_ better. His pulse and O2 sat rates looked good. The EKG looked good. He ached in the usual places—thigh, knee, wrist, chest, abdomen, head—but not badly. Normal breathing felt normal again. He no longer felt like he was being roasted from the inside out. He even felt rested. Nope. He didn't feel too badly at all.

But the bed he was in, his gown, his skin—everything felt and smelled dirty. He stank; he needed a bath now worse than he ever had when he was a teenager and he'd just come in from practice in the late summer heat. The layers of dried sweat he'd felt on himself earlier were still there and new layers from the most recent round of fever clung to the old layers. His face itched, too, with too many days of growth. Yes. A bath was exactly what he needed.

He frowned at the thought of the dinky tub in the bathroom. He'd had to fold himself knees to chin in small tubs since he was in his stinky, sports-laden mid-teens and the water barely rose higher than his navel. No. What he needed was a whirlpool bath, or at least an immersion tub from physical therapy full of hot water.

And he knew just how to get it. He grinned to himself and shifted his focus back to the sitter.

"Hey," he called to the boy. His voice cracked mid-syllable: he needed a drink too.

The boy looked up and closed the novel but said nothing, waiting for House to tell him what he wanted.

"Hand me the phone and get me some water," House ordered in a rusty voice.

To House's surprise, the boy simply got up and gave him the phone, then poured a cup of water. He made a note to offer this kid a job as his personal slave if he continued to behave so well. His minions had become complacent about performing menial tasks of late, and they'd always given him too much lip.

Suddenly very pleased with life, House took a long swig of water and put the receiver to his ear, carefully dialing Cuddy's office number with his left hand.

While the phone rang, he raised the bed so he could sit up. A male voice he didn't recognize answered.

"Hi, yes, this is Doctor Wilson calling for Doctor Cuddy," he said in his best professional tone. "She's in a meeting right now? Oh. Well, will you tell her that her patient in room 2024 is dead? Yes, I think she'll want to know that right away. Thank you."

The boy raised an eyebrow at him over the novel as he hung up.

"It's the only way she'll return my calls," House explained with feigned innocence.

He finished the water and stretched his arms carefully, very, very pleased with himself.

* * *

Downstairs, Cuddy's assistant crept toward her office door. He was new and he didn't like the contents of the message he was bearing.

He watched her glance up briefly when he poked his head inside her office to give her the message. A flash of horror lit up her face, but disappeared before he was even sure he'd seen it.

She nodded him out with a 'thank you.' He returned to his desk in the anteroom, thankful that this Doctor Wilson hadn't just gotten him fired.

Inside her office, Cuddy sniffed to herself and rolled her eyes. And she smiled. Her petulant charge was obviously feeling much better.

She picked up the phone and dialed his room.

"What do you want?" she barked before he could speak.

"You weren't in a meeting," House said on the other end.

She heard a demonic grin in his voice. Yep, he was _much_ better. Maybe too much better. She stopped smiling only long enough to sound properly annoyed.

"I was in a meeting, actually," she said, and it was partially true since she had just been in a meeting, although this conversation had nothing to do with veracity. "But I don't expect you to know what a meeting is, never mind recognize one when you see it."

"It's seven o'clock," House pointed out.

"Yeah," Cuddy said sarcastically. "We have meetings at night, too—like department head meetings—which you'd know if you ever attended one."

House grumbled something she couldn't make out. He sounded like he'd been gargling rocks, which wasn't too far from reality.

"House. What do you want?"

House waited a beat. She could hear him being naughty.

"I'm dirty," he said in a voice straight out of a bad soft-core porn film. "I need a bath."

"So?" she replied. "You want me to personally deliver the rubber duck?"

"No," he said, still using the bad boy voice, "I want you to get up here."

"House—" An abrupt click on the other end and a dial tone kept her from continuing the threat.

Still she smiled, though she knew she'd need backup if he was _this _much better. She finished what she'd been doing and headed to Wilson's office.

* * *

"Cough," Cuddy demanded, one hand holding a stethoscope to House's back, the other holding his shoulder.

He glanced up at her with a drawn, pale face that testified to the severity of his illness. But his eyes were sharp and lively.

"No," he gruffed out.

"House," she warned.

He sighed like a sullen child and obeyed, coughing weakly.

He saw Wilson, who was standing idly at the foot of the bed, trying not to look pleased at the sound and the fact that he didn't end up hunched over, clutching his ribs while he coughed uncontrollably. House glowered at him: _what are you so happy about?_ He hated—_hated_—having either of them listen to his chest. But he forced the indignity aside and concentrated on getting one of them down to the PT area to fill something large and deep with hot water.

"Good," Cuddy said, removing the instrument and pushing his shoulder gently to let him know he could lay back.

"Yeah, I'm great." House rolled his eyes. "About that rubber duck?"

Cuddy's eyes shifted to the bathroom. She crossed her arms and looked back at him. "I'm not stopping you."

"No," House said. "It's too small. I'd get stuck."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "House," she complained.

"I've gotta stretch out," House said.

Wilson's eyebrows knitted and he raised a contemplative hand to his chin. "One of the physical therapy tubs would work," he ventured.

House looked from Wilson to Cuddy. "See?" he said to her. "That's all you had to say."

Cuddy rolled her eyes again—all part of the game she played with House every day. She was still delighted at how feisty he was right now. But she pretended to be irritated and threw her hands up—it wouldn't do to act any other way.

"Fine," she acquiesced.

"And you." House looked at Wilson.

Wilson put on a 'who, me?' expression.

"You can go get me something edible," House continued. "I'm starving."

Wilson bowed slightly like a genie granting a wish. "Would master care to specify his preference?"

"Master wants soup from the good deli on College," House instructed. "And chop chop, or it's forty lashes."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "You know I can do things to you while you sleep," he said mysteriously.

House narrowed his eyes in return. "As long as you know payback's a bitch."

Wilson grunted what could have been a laugh and left, even more secretly happy than Cuddy was.

Cuddy, who'd been adjusting the I.V. settings and enjoying the banter, spoke as soon as Wilson had gone.

"I'll get a nurse in here to remove some of the more delicately-placed tubing."

"Scared?" House asked with a sly grin. "It _is _pretty big. I mean, they don't call it the White Whale for nothing."

Cuddy just stared at him for a moment to let him know she thought he was irreparably insane, then moved on.

"I halved your saline intake," she said. "The sooner you're eating and drinking, the sooner you're out of here."

House's forehead wrinkled. "What happened to 'you're not going anywhere until Dr. Freud tells you you've got all your marbles?'" he asked.

"I'm in a good mood," Cuddy replied, slightly smug. "Push your luck. See what happens."

House was smart enough to limit himself to wrinkling his nose and twisting mouth as if he'd tasted something tart when he was expecting something sweet.

Cuddy watched him closely. Either his mood was elevated by the sudden return of his ability to breathe or he was planning something. Her gut told her it was the former, but her head told her it was always best to assume he was planning something. And the fact that he was so intent on a bath and refused to take advantage of the one in his room only fanned her suspicions. Then again, she didn't think he'd take himself out of the game without some drama and drowning in a bathtub just wasn't very dramatic. She resolved to keep a very close watch on him until he was back to causing trouble.

On the bed, House glowered at Cuddy for rubbing it in by standing there so long and smirking so regally at him.

"It's not going to run itself," House snipped, shifting his left leg impatiently under the blanket.

Cuddy watched him for a moment more. "I'll be back to get you in ten or fifteen minutes," she said.

"Can't you threaten to fire a couple of people and make it five?" House whined. "It's not like they're _doing _anything."

Cuddy's left eyebrow shot up. "I can call your lackeys," she said. "I'm sure they'd just _love _to take care of this for you."

House narrowed his eyes like he'd done with Wilson. "You're not going to see it coming," he said, "but when it happens, you'll know."

Cuddy appeared non-fazed. "If you want more clinic hours, House, just _ask_ for them," she said, and turned on her heel and left.

House sniffed to himself, smiling slightly, and the boy with the novel came trotting back in.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, House, who had been unhooked, unbandaged, and nearly disrobed, was teetering between a short male nurse and the boy with the book as they tried to help him from the wheelchair to the tub in the basement hydrotherapy room. The step over the tall tub wall was proving difficult. And House refused to remove his gown.

"Can't you go away?" he complained to Cuddy, who was supervising the transfer.

She rolled her eyes, gave a long-suffering sigh, and turned her back.

House burned with rage and shame as the two men holding him up adjusted their grips so he could slip out of the gown. If he hadn't been so embarrassed at the miserable state of his body, he would have been grateful to Cuddy for tapping two men to take care of this. He had some peace of mind, knowing that neither of these people was interested in looking at him and wouldn't be talking about him later either, but it wasn't enough to keep his neck from flushing.

The short nurse made it worse by ducking his shoulder under House's right arm and gently gripping his leg near the knee. House closed his eyes and tried to forget that this was happening. But he could still sense the nurse communicating with the boy.

The steaming water was so close…if he could just step over the damned wall…

He heard the nurse count to three and then he was lifted and dunked into the water. His entire body screamed at the movement and he couldn't help a wince and a grunt, but once his bones and muscles registered the soothing heat, they sighed happily and let him relax.

He blinked and saw Cuddy watching him in tough-guy stance. She uncrossed her arms and a wadded ball of white cotton flew through the air and landed on the water's surface.

House took the wash cloth and quickly covered himself up, looking away and heaving a frustrated, wheezy sigh as she came near the tub.

Cuddy was careful to keep her eyes on his face. She knew how uncomfortable he'd been with his body since the infarction. When he looked back, she tried to convey to him that she wasn't interested in anything but business.

From the back of the wheelchair she produced a wrapped bar of soap and a small shampoo bottle. These she tossed into the tub too.

House kept up the eye contact, angrily daring her to look anywhere but his eyes right now.

"No razor?" he asked with a cocked eyebrow.

"You wouldn't know what to do with one," Cuddy fired back.

Inside, her level of suspicion notched up. She kept her eyes on House while she spoke to the two men.

"If he so much as looks at you strangely, one of you come get me," Cuddy instructed. "I'll be right outside."

"Two against one?" House said. "Your level of trust gives me the warm fuzzies."

Cuddy sniffed and glanced at the two men. "_Anything _strange," she reiterated.

House glared at her as she left.

His eyes flickered to the keepers, both of whom had taken seats near the wall, far enough away to give him some privacy.

"She wants me," he said with a smirk.

Not interested in watching them react to that, he tipped his head back against the lip of the tub, stretched himself out, and spread the hot washcloth out over his face.

* * *

House had just finished washing his hair when the door burst open. He jumped, startled, as did his two guards. The only sound in the room for the past ten minutes had been the movement of water and none of them was expecting any visitors.

When he saw who it was, House paled first, not wanting her to see him like this, then reddened, angry that she'd come when he was naked. But, he admitted wryly to himself, it figured that she'd swoop in on him now. And if he were in her position, he would have done it this way too.

The two men regarded Stacy with questioning looks as she held the door open. Behind her, they saw Cuddy sigh a little and beckon to them. House was too busy blushing and looking away while he sank the washcloth to cover his groin to notice.

The men left and Stacy let the door close behind them. She approached the tub slowly, obviously conflicted, but kept several feet between the two of them.

House occupied himself by staring at the far wall, trying to fight the whirl of emotion in his chest. He was angry, embarrassed, and lustful all at once; he felt like he was being torn apart as they fought for dominance.

Stacy shifted from foot to foot, sensing most of his feelings and absolutely aware of how raw they were, because hers were just as raw and just as oppositional.

After a long, awkward moment, she crossed over to one of the chairs the men had been sitting in and dropped herself in it, doubling over, elbow to knee, and resting her jaw in a hand.

House moved his head too. When she'd been standing in front of him, looking at the far wall had allowed him to keep her in his field of peripheral vision. Now that she was several feet away on his right, he bowed his head forward and stared vacantly at the surface of the water and his pale, skinny legs fishlike underneath it.

Neither said anything.

After a while, Stacy straightened and House began fidgeting with the soap.

"I'm not here to fight," Stacy said at last.

She waited for his retort, watching his face carefully for a reaction. None came.

Of course, she could look at him and see that he was tired—not tired enough for anyone else to see, except maybe Wilson, but tired enough for her to see. She reminded herself of just how ill he'd been lately. She ached to hold him and kiss him and tell him everything would be all right—he had that lost puppy look on his face, the real one that he wasn't aware of which only appeared when he was truly sad and too tired to hide it—but she knew she simply couldn't do that. Nothing could fix the past. So she took a breath and began.

"I'm leaving," she said. "Tomorrow."

House kept his eyes on the surface of the water, trying not to feel anything.

"Going anywhere fun?" he asked. His voice lacked emotion of any kind.

The corner of her mouth curled in a wry smile. If that was the best he could do, he _was _tired. She knew she should just tell him and leave, and for once she was going to do what she knew she should do.

"Wilson and Cuddy found another hospital with a good treatment program for Mark," she explained. "It's only an hour from Short Hills. We talked it over and agreed it would be the best thing to do."

"We?" House echoed, still talking to the water.

"Wilson and Cuddy and I," Stacy replied.

"So it's the best thing for me," House said.

Stacy's mouth curled again. "Mark didn't argue," she said. "He's glad to get as far away from you as possible. And it's closer to home."

House was silent for a moment. Then he looked at her for the first time, his eyes piercing hers. She couldn't hide anything from him now, not when he was that intent.

"And what about you?" he asked neutrally.

He was calm. She knew that meant he was hurt but too tired to be angry or defensive.

Stacy sniffed mildly. "Less than a week on the job," she said, not wanting to answer the real question. "I think it's a record."

His eyes bored into her. "You told me you sold popcorn in a mall when you were sixteen and quit after two days," he replied, his voice steady, almost soft.

She smiled wryly again. "Second shortest," she replied.

House continued to examine her, demanding that she answer, asking her not to leave anything unsaid.

Stacy looked down at the floor for a moment, collecting herself.

"I…don't want to leave," she began, "but I can't stay here and watch you kill yourself." She looked sharply at him before he could protest: "And you will," she added. She turned her eyes back to the floor. "Maybe it won't be dramatic. Maybe you'll just drink yourself blind every night and take more pills than you should—pick fights and get a few bloody noses—it's the same thing." Now she looked up at his intense stare. "I won't do that to you."

"How noble," House quipped, but there was no nastiness in it. Just weariness.

Stacy inclined her head to acknowledge his barb.

"I'm not good for you anymore," she said. "And you're not good for me. Even if I want it to be different, it isn't. It won't be. This is the best thing for everyone."

His eyes didn't waver. "So that's it?"

She took a breath and exhaled heavily, then clasped her hands together. "That's it."

They stared at each other, speaking silently, trying to find out if this really was it between them. They both wanted desperately for this to be over but they both clung so tightly to what little they still had, begging it never to leave.

After several long minutes, House spoke, still not breaking eye contact.

"Okay."

Stacy appraised him, trying to make sure he meant it, and wondering if she meant it.

Then she too said, "Okay."

She stood but she couldn't take her eyes off of his. There _were _things unsaid, so many things unsaid. But neither of them could say them, and finally her mouth twitched slightly in fondness and longing, and she looked away.

House watched her walk to the doors, hoping she would turn around but begging her to just keep going.

She paused, holding the open door by a hand to let the men back in, and House saw her shoulders tense, but she didn't turn around.

The door clanged shut. The men resumed their seats.

House tipped his head back against the tub lip again and wondered if a day would ever come when the memory of her would no longer lurk behind every corner, waiting to haunt him.


	29. Something Human

Disclaimers, etc. in the preceding chapters.

This is a very quiet scene that I hope you like. And yes, Stacy really is leaving. She's an adult in this AU.

* * *

**Chapter 27: Something Human**

By the time Cuddy knocked on the door, the water was tepid and the only thing keeping House awake was his growling stomach.

She stuck her head in. "Are you growing gills in here, House?" she asked. "It's been almost forty-five minutes."

Out of habit, House's eyebrow shot up.

"Got a hot date?"

But his heart wasn't in it.

She entered bearing a towel, a fresh gown, and boxers House recognized as his own. So she'd been pawing through his bag. He tried faintly to summon anger or annoyance at having his privacy violated, but nothing was there.

"Sure you don't want to keep those?" He spoke mechanically as she deposited the clean clothes on the wheelchair's seat. He was tired. That was all.

"Carry them around in your purse?" he continued. "Sniff them when no one's looking?"

She glared at him, aware that he needed time to react to Stacy's news but knowing that he didn't want pity, sympathy, or even neutrality. She would always play the harsh mistress. He wasn't comfortable with anything else from her.

"Five minutes," she said.

House glared back at her until she was gone again. He thought about trying to push himself up, but with the broken wrist and the trouble with his knee he knew it would be futile. And he was…tired.

He had no snide comment when the nurse and the sitter came over to pick him up, and he offered no resistance. He coughed hesitantly, his ribs burning; mucous was building up again and the hot water had loosened it. A serious cough grew in his chest and he fought it down. Not while two pairs of sweaty hands were on his arms. Not in front of these two healthy guys.

They lifted him out of the tub and he stood on one foot, dripping and cold, trying to balance his right foot on its toes because even after a long soak and pain meds still working, he knew that straightening his knee would hurt.

Yes, he thought, he'd done a number on himself.

And all for nothing. She was gone.

The sitter held him up while the nurse went around the tub. He turned inward, ignoring them.

Stacy…just…left him…broken up…in pieces…not knowing how to feel.

By the time she'd packed up and moved out five years ago, he hadn't had any feelings left. They had come back slowly over the years, the hard emotions first, like primary colors: red anger, blue depression, yellow fear, each wrapped hard and tight around kernels of hope, love, faith. He hadn't wanted to let them in. They'd only ever caused him pain. But eventually they'd broken through his defenses and after a few months, he would get a jolt of emotion from time to time. Then, like ugly, unwanted furniture, they became part of his interior life, expected but not wanted. Still, Vicodin suppressed them and they hadn't returned in very good condition, so he didn't have to deal with them most of the time. Small mercies, he thought blearily.

The nurse had begun toweling him off before he realized what was going on. He let the man keep going. He knew he couldn't do it any faster and he was tired and a little dizzy and shaky, wheezing when he breathed in. He needed to eat. His mouth watered at the thought of the soup Wilson would have for him.

The animal urges. Vicodin suppressed them, too, but they had never left. There were many times when he wished they had gone—when he was hungry but didn't want to eat, horny but disgusted with himself, sleepy but frightened of dreaming—but they wouldn't leave. At least they were easy to satisfy most of time. And even easier to ignore.

He remembered how good it had felt to be so angry last week. He'd felt so alive, so desperate. Because when she had come back, she'd brought his feelings with her. It was as if she carried them around in a spring-loaded suitcase. All his ugly, unwanted furniture, ready to pounce on the smooth, black lines of loneliness and un-feeling in the space he'd made for himself, a space he found so livable.

And now she was gone again and he couldn't feel anything. This time, though, the lack of feeling was almost pleasant, like warm water. Like the smooth, still surface of warm water. Unbroken.

The nurse helped him put his boxers on while the sitter held him steady. He was gowned and seated in the wheelchair before he knew it. If he'd been in a different mood, he would have admitted that they were both very professional. Much more professional than he was.

Cuddy was waiting at the door and took over the task of wheeling him back to the room. She was silent while his stomach snarled and his chest cracked. Vaguely, he wondered just how much of a hand she'd had in Stacy's decision.

He lifted his head, which had been drooping, and spoke over his shoulder in a toneless voice.

"Did you ask her to leave?"

"No," Cuddy replied without hesitation, having expected the question. "She came to us."

"When?"

"A few hours ago. After you were scoped."

They stopped at the elevator. Cuddy stayed behind him, giving him the space and time he needed. She could hear him wheezing but pushed his physical health to the back of her mind for the time being. Stacy hadn't specified when she'd planned to tell him during their meeting earlier. Cuddy had worried that Stacy would wait and House would continue to suffer, but when she'd come so soon, Cuddy had almost turned her away. The forlorn expression on her face, though, kept Cuddy from protesting. She just hoped it was better this way, getting it over quickly. She hoped that this wasn't another mistake in which she played a small but integral role.

House coughed heavily and took a moment to get his breath back. Cuddy said nothing, busying herself with an examination of the wax job maintenance had done on the floor yesterday.

"She said you and Wilson recommended another hospital," House said. He turned his head to look at her, asking if it were true. "You had one ready?"

"Wilson and I talked about it on Saturday," Cuddy replied, looking down at him with honesty and sincerity. No lies, no games now. Not until he started them back up himself.

"Then why'd you hire her?"

The elevator dinged and Cuddy wheeled him in. She hit the button for his floor and stood next to him. He was still looking up, his pale, lined face weary but yearning to know.

"You said it was all right," she answered. "If I'd known it wasn't all right with you, I would have told her and…" she gestured vaguely, "something else would have happened."

House lowered his head and studied the line where the elevator floor and wall met. He coughed again, not as hard this time, and rubbed his ribs. He could hardly believe that he was actually looking forward to having them bandaged again. They felt so tender without support.

"So this is my fault?" he asked.

Cuddy realized with some alarm that he was sincerely asking. How could someone who was hell bent on everyone around him taking responsibility for their actions be so blind about his own cop-outs? But the bareness of the question—and—and no, it wasn't all his fault. Of course it wasn't. How could he think that? She couldn't even begin to answer him, and she knew that he didn't really want to hear her answer, so she slipped behind the mask again.

The elevator dinged again and she rolled her eyes.

"Duh."

House sniffed at her response, feeling better. Now he could return to the safe place beneath his abrasive personality: she'd given him permission. His sniff set off a coughing fit and he was almost happy when she started lecturing him about it.

Yes. He felt better now, hacking up pieces of lung while Cuddy screeched and wheeled him down the corridor. Smiling a little to himself, a small surge of soft red streaked across his barren, gray interior, leaving a warm splotch behind. Something human.


	30. Support

Disclaimers, etc. in the preceding chapters.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this fic recently, especially KidsNurse. You got me writing again. I think I'm close to wrapping this up, but I shouldn't say that since I had the first part of this chapter written in July.

* * *

**Chapter 28: Support**

When Cuddy wheeled House back into the room, Wilson was waiting in a chair with his head in one hand. He jerked up sharply before they could exchange a worried glance. House studied him: something was up.

Cuddy looked to Wilson too, offering support, but he didn't look at her.

"Soup's on," he said to House with a false smile, sounding much more cheerful than he looked.

As Cuddy helped House get back on the bed and settled, they glanced quickly at each other to confirm that they weren't imagining what they'd seen. If Wilson saw them, he didn't let on.

House shifted his eyes to Cuddy again, telling her to leave, that he had this one. This was his territory.

Cuddy didn't argue. "I'll page ortho to wrap you back up," she said to House, and left the room without indulging the desire to glance at Wilson again.

Wilson started unpacking the soup—opening the container, tearing the spoon and napkin out of their plastic wrap, pouring water, all the nice Wilson-like gestures.

House watched him. Wilson hadn't looked at him since that first exchange. Unless he was terribly mistaken, the red in Wilson's eyes plus his shell-shocked countenance equaled a major occurrence.

With uncharacteristic restraint, House waited until he had a few spoonfuls of soup in his stomach and Wilson was again seated before he said anything.

"One of your pets give up the ghost?"

Wilson's eyes traveled from the television to the floor. He sat silently for a long time. House ate while he watched Wilson. No reason he should starve while Wilson mused. The gossip inside House smirked evilly: whatever it was, it was big. Much bigger than a dead pet.

At length, Wilson spoke.

"I thought I'd run home before I went to the deli," he began, talking dully the floor. "There was a car I didn't recognize in the driveway."

He took a deep breath and sighed. "When I went in, they were on the rug in the living room."

_Much _bigger than a dead pet. But House kept eating. To stop now would breach the male code.

House was scraping the bottom of the plastic container before he replied.

"Need a place to crash?"

Wilson moved his head a little, like a horse shooing a fly.

"Thanks," he said gruffly.

House said nothing. Instead, he found the television remote and stopped on the first sporting event he found. College World Series again. He tossed the spoon on the tray in victory and leaned back with a sigh of contentment. Nothing beat a full stomach. He savored the feeling for a few moments, hand resting happily on his belly, before he opened his eyes to look at Wilson.

Wilson watched the game like he had money on it.

"This means a big trip to Atlantic City," House said. "Huge trip. Lots of decadence." He swung a hand out in front of him to indicate the sweep of the event. "Hundred dollar blackjack tables. Shot of Maker's every time you get a pair. Comped rooms and food." He paused for effect. "Really expensive hookers."

Wilson's mouth twitched before he could stop it.

"And this time you didn't have to tell her first," House finished.

Wilson's face flattened. He stared so hard at the floor he should be able to see the foundation.

"That's just it," he said slowly. "I didn't do anything this time."

House's instinct to snort and call Wilson a liar was suppressed by Wilson's expression. Instead, he coughed a little to move the crap around in his lungs, which ate a good minute.

"_Really _expensive hookers," he choked out when he'd gotten his breath back.

Wilson sniffed lightly, his mouth twitching. House relaxed and closed his eyes, telling himself that he'd taunt Wilson later, that his kindness was the result of fatigue. He didn't want to acknowledge how much lighter he felt now that Stacy was gone and he knew she wouldn't be coming back. It was a clean break this time. He knew he'd lie in bed at night and want her back so bad his chest would hurt, and he'd take a few Vicodin and have a drink to put himself to sleep, but he wouldn't actually expect her to come back. He didn't understand everything that had happened in the past few days but he felt better now than he had in a long time.

"Stacy's gone," he said, his voice rusty. He coughed.

House sensed Wilson shift.

"Already?" Wilson asked.

House nodded. He was full, sleepy, and one dose of pain meds away from a long nap.

Wilson grunted and shifted again.

House coughed and rolled his head back and forth on the pillow, grimacing. "Starting to hurt."

Wilson breathed in and out. "Cuddy said something about ortho."

House cracked an eyelid. "You can't check?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and got to his feet. The door slid open before he could reach it. Wilson executed an about face and sat again as Cuddy entered flanked by two nurses.

"Finally," House grumbled, pushing himself up. "Worst service ever."

"Shut up," Cuddy returned, directing the nurses to each side of the bed.

House grumbled quietly as the nurses removed his gown, then winced and groaned while Cuddy listened to him cough.

"It's moving around well," she said as she listened. She waited for House to stop coughing, then got his attention. "Think you can bring some of it up on your own?"

House glanced up at her. "Just ate," he said gruffly. "I'll puke."

Cuddy looked to Wilson. Wilson shifted his shoulder, indicating that House was correct.

Cuddy eyed him suspiciously for good measure and pocketed the stethoscope. "I don't want to have to scope you again."

"Need some sleep first," House grunted.

Cuddy signaled to the nurses to begin wrapping House's ribs again, her face a mask of disapproval. She was anything but disapproving of him right now, but she couldn't let him know that.

One of the nurses gently pushed House's shoulder after fastening the last of bandage. He lay back gratefully but sucked in a surprised breath before he was there. After a grunt and a wince, his back found the bed. Suddenly moody, he trained his eyes on the big toe of his left foot. He was beginning to realize that Cuddy would give him whatever pain meds she thought he should take. Asking for something good was useless and telling her how badly his body hurt was a waste of oxygen.

He hissed involuntarily when one of the nurses pressed down too hard while redressing his incision.

Cuddy's voice floated toward him.

"House?"

House flexed his big toe. "What?"

"Okay?"

House expelled a puff of frustrated air and moved his left foot back and forth. "No."

"What—?"

His eyes flashed up at her, cutting her off. "You know what," he said, a mixture of anger and sulkiness in his voice.

Wilson cleared his throat. Cuddy turned toward him.

"He complained of pain earlier," Wilson said quietly.

Cuddy looked back to House, who still glared at her, his eyes shining with suppressed anger and sadness.

"Go ahead, give me some more ineffective crap," House growled. He held her gaze for a short moment before turning his attention to the floor. He wasn't in the mood for this.

Cuddy's expression softened. "How bad is it?" she asked.

"Doesn't matter," House muttered. He stared at the floor for a while longer, then sighed. "I'm tired. Go away."

Cuddy pursed her lips, then spoke quietly to one of the nurses. The nurse nodded shortly and left.

Cuddy leaned forward, hands on the foot of the bed. "If you're in pain, you need to tell me," she said. "If you're…I don't know…upset about her leaving—"

"I'm not upset, I'm tired," House groaned. "I want to sleep." He picked his head up to look at her. "I want you to go away." He let his head drop back down and shut his eyes.

Cuddy watched him for a moment, then straightened up and stepped over to where Wilson was seated.

"Do you plan to stay long?" she asked.

"A while," Wilson answered. "An hour or two, if it takes him that long to go down."

Her face softened again and she spoke quietly. "Are you okay?"

Wilson blinked. "Fine," he replied. A second later, his brain clicked on and he registered Cuddy's skeptical expression. "No. But I will be." He waved a dismissive hand.

Cuddy lingered for a few seconds, letting him know she would be there if he wanted to talk, then left.

Wilson returned to the sixth inning of a baseball game he'd registered exactly nothing about. House shifted his sore limbs, keeping his eyes closed, genuinely trying to sleep.

Two hours later, after ten minutes of listening to House's soft snoring, Wilson checked his key ring for a spare to House's apartment and let himself out.


	31. Chopped Liver

Disclaimers, etc. in the preceding chapters.

Wow. Thanks for the nice response, everyone. I hope this chapter works for you too.

* * *

**Chapter 29: Chopped Liver**

At noon the following day, Cuddy tapped on Wilson's office door.

"Come in," Wilson called.

He glanced up, pen still in motion. House had been asleep when he'd arrived this morning, still asleep when Wilson had followed his breakfast tray in, and had grumbled about sick patients needing their sleep when Wilson woke him for a vitals check, so Wilson had spent the morning catching up on work. When he saw Cuddy at the door, he finished his note, dropped the pen, and rubbed his eyes.

"What's up?" he asked, not making much of an effort to disguise the weariness in his voice.

Smiling, Cuddy brandished a file. "House's liver test results." She handed it to Wilson. "Looks much better. Minimal permanent damage. If he stays off Vicodin…"

Wilson scanned the numbers, flipping pages rapidly, nodding his head. "I didn't think he was healthy enough to rebound like this." He passed the file back, looking up at Cuddy. "Have you told him?"

"He's still asleep," Cuddy answered.

"Still?" Wilson echoed incredulously.

Cuddy shrugged. "He's tired. He should be. He's sick."

Wilson turned his head slightly, narrowing one eye. "Tired or depressed?" he countered.

Cuddy's shoulder jogged up and down carelessly. "Either. Both. He's resting, which is what he needs to be doing. For once he's doing the right thing."

"That's what's weird about it," Wilson replied.

Cuddy shrugged again, pleased enough by House's sudden compliance not to worry about it. "He's still running a low-grade fever," she argued. "The nurses have been waking him every few hours to cough, which is taxing—add two hours of imaging studies—" She threw her hands up. "He's exhausted. He's sick. He needs the rest." Realizing she was defending House, she paused, the corner of her mouth pulling. "That's what he keeps mumbling when I wake him up, anyway."

Wilson sniffed. "I got more of a growl this morning."

Cuddy sighed, wishing Wilson would drop the subject because he was right and she knew it.

"He'll be planning panty raids again before we know it," she said with weary expectation.

Wilson let his lip twitch in agreement, then tented his fingers and leaned forward. He took a breath, gazing tiredly up at her.

"Do you really think he'll stay off Vicodin?"

His eyes didn't waver. Cuddy met his stare, wondering exactly what he was asking her; how serious was he being? Wilson could be worse than House at times. Because, dammit, _he was right_.

Finally, she sighed and slumped forward, letting the file fall in the chair in front of Wilson's desk.

"No," she answered. "But who's going to help him if we don't?"

Wilson tipped his head to the side. "Good point."

He spread his hands out, palms down on his desk and took a deep breath, studying his reflection in the polished surface. Then he looked up to Cuddy.

"Do you know what he told me when I confronted him about the liver damage a few days ago?" Wilson asked.

Cuddy's forehead furrowed. She shook her head once.

"He said that he was dealing with it," Wilson replied. "That it was his problem and he was dealing with it. That he didn't want to be sick. That he wants to enjoy the time he has left, not spend it in and out of hospitals hoping his immune system won't reject the donor liver no transplant committee in their right mind will give him." Wilson ran a hand over his face. "He knows the pills will kill him. He always has. At some point, it has to be his choice." Wilson's mouth crinkled with frustration.

Cuddy exhaled heavily. Nothing Wilson had said was new to her. She imagined none of it was new to him, or to House. But now it had been vocalized; it was out there, in the air. More inevitable. More unstoppable.

She exhaled heavily again and waved a defeated hand. "He always chooses quality over quantity."

Wilson propped his head up on the fleshy web between his thumb and forefinger. "He's right, too. Selfish. But it's his life."

Cuddy stood straight again, taking the file up. "I'm not putting him back on Vicodin yet," she said. "At least one more day of Neurontin. And I'm starting him on high-dose ibuprofen—now, which is already later than I should have." She made a face. "He'll need to be weaned off Demerol." Her eyes flickered to Wilson. "Two more days of Neurontin. At least one without any narcotics."

Wilson massaged his forehead, not looking up at her. House would hate this idea. He would resist. In all likelihood, he would be in real pain, too. Particles of guilt multiplied and stung his chest and stomach like bad heartburn.

"Who knows," Cuddy continued. "It might work this time."

Wilson shrugged half-heartedly, knowing that she was right: it might work.

"Worth a try," he replied.

But he knew the odds of a drug like this working now when it never had before. He had to be the one to say it, so he turned his eyes up to her in mock defiance.

"And when it doesn't work?" he asked.

Cuddy met his stare for a long moment. Usually she was the realist—and usually Wilson's part was played by House, and usually the patient wasn't House. The subtleties of Wilson's relationship with House never ceased to amaze her.

She sighed heavily, not wanting to admit that Wilson, again, was right.

"Something without acetaminophen," she conceded. "Oxycodone, hydrocodone. Aspirin, ibuprofen. Take your pick."

Wilson blinked. "Seriously?"

Cuddy sighed again, her arms folded over the chair. "He has pain. He needs something to manage it. The meds that work best for him are habit forming." Her shoulders dropped in defeat. "I know all of this. I just don't like it."

Wilson's eyebrows furrowed. "You just said you wouldn't put him back on Vicodin."

"I know." She clenched her teeth, looking away for a moment. "But…you're right." She looked at him. "He's not just tired. He took his meds this morning. No spitting, no snarling, no gnashing of teeth. Just 'I'm tired, go away.'" She shook her head. "The nurses have gotten total cooperation out of him."

Wilson took a breath and expelled it, throwing his hand out to mimic his idea. "He's moping. It's another tactic."

Cuddy's eyes narrowed. She appreciated that Wilson was often torn between advocating for House and arguing against him, but sometimes she wished he would take a side and stay with it.

"Do you have a point?" she asked with more aggression than she'd intended. She was tired. Wilson was tired. They should join House and sleep the day away, she mused wryly.

Wilson shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "It would be naïve to think that after six years of more or less effective pain relief, we'd be able to get him to switch to something new. He'd find a way to get his hands on what he wants." He paused, thinking. "Another year or two of daily acetaminophen abuse and his liver's shot." He massaged his forehead again, recalling the long period of adjustment after the infarct. "Oxycodone he hates. It makes him giddy, it impairs his judgment, it doesn't work. He had to take double the prescribed dose the first day he was on it just to get some pain relief." He waved a hand to forestall any disagreement from Cuddy. "It was years ago, I know, but I think you're—_we're_—better off convincing him to replace the acetaminophen and keep the hydrocodone than to switch to oxy."

Cuddy remained bent over the back of the chair, arms crossed, shoulders hunched. "Not that oxy's any better," she mumbled.

Wilson grunted, nodding. He picked up a pen and began turning it over with his thumb and forefinger. He looked up at her.

"That was easy," he said.

She studied him. "You don't trust it," she replied.

Wilson flipped the pen. "If it's this easy, why didn't we come up with it last year when his Vicodin use escalated?"

Cuddy lifted a shoulder and shook her head. "We know next to nothing about the nature of pain. Do we overprescribe or underprescribe? If we have to trust the patient not to lie to us…"

Wilson sniffed. "House makes that part easy."

Cuddy straightened up. "It's a crap shoot." she said. "It's worse than a crap shoot. But this way he might live longer."

Wilson's eyebrows jumped. "He'll be more thrilled about this than he will be about his liver."

Cuddy picked the folder up from the chair. "Thursday," she said. "If he doesn't respond to the Neurontin by then, I'll put him on a new hydrocodone combo."

Wilson took a deep breath and nodded slightly as he exhaled. This solution felt wrong to him. They were giving in too easily. But he wouldn't have questioned Cuddy about any of it if his gut didn't tell him that House would find some way to get the drugs he wanted if he wasn't supplied with them. He flipped the pen again. He had nothing left to say.

Cuddy had paused and tilted her head to the side, examining Wilson closely. She hadn't asked him yet what had upset him so much yesterday. House had been no help on the subject either.

"You look like hell," she observed.

Wilson merely nodded as though he'd agree with anything she said right now.

"How's the paperwork coming?" she asked.

Wilson sniffed, hand drifting over to a stack of papers. "I'm down to the items marked urgent."

Cuddy gave him a lopsided smile. "Take the afternoon off," she suggested. "Go home. Get some rest."

Wilson shook his head without looking up. "Can't go home," he said automatically. He sensed Cuddy watching him and let the pen fall. Oops. He hadn't meant to say anything.

"Strike three," he said, knowing he had to continue. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wasn't my fault this time, though."

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said sincerely.

Wilson shifted uncomfortably, eyes trained on his desk. Everyone would know eventually, but Julie's infidelity was still too fresh for him to reveal it lightly. He realized that he must be tired if he'd let it slip to Cuddy.

"Do you have a place to stay?" she asked.

"House's couch," Wilson replied without looking up. He felt himself smile at the reaction he knew she'd give him.

As if on cue, Cuddy winced. "If you'd like an actual room…" she began, as surprised by what she was saying as Wilson had been by his admission of his problem. House's escapades had worn both of them down.

Wilson shrugged. "It's a comfortable couch. And he'll need someone to keep him from sticking his fingers in the outlets when he gets home."

Cuddy drummed her fingers on the file, relieved not to have a houseguest. Even if each of House's mishaps drew the two of them closer, she still valued her privacy.

"If you need anything, you know where I am," she said. "And you really should take the afternoon off."

Wilson continued to study his desk—what little of it was visible under the mass of paperwork before him.

"Thank you," he said after a while, his face a mix of emotions he couldn't articulate.

Cuddy let herself out quietly without Wilson noticing. As she closed the door, she wondered which of her two most interesting department heads she should worry most about right now.


	32. Another Bullshit Night in Suck City

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

This one goes out to Katrina Hawke for reviewing through the story, as well as everyone else who's asked about this fic. :) (Chapter title taken from poet Nick Flynn's memoir.)

* * *

**Chapter 30: Another Bullshit Night in Suck City**

While not narcissistic enough to believe the bright afternoon sunlight was mocking him, Wilson did wish a summer thunderstorm would roll in as he let himself in to House's apartment building. Never mind the desire to have the weather mirror his mood; he slept better when it was raining.

He hadn't had the gumption to come here last night. Something about another person's empty apartment after dark, even if he had been invited, even when it was House and he'd been here so many times before, disturbed him. He'd napped on the couch in his office, slogged through the backlog of paperwork when he couldn't stay asleep, checked on House, napped again, paperwork again, checked on House again. Now Cuddy had sent him home. Here.

The apartment was as he'd left it: messy. He slid shirts and jackets aside with his foot and locked the door behind him. His bag thumped against the floor as he leaned forward, elbows on the back of the couch. Piles of books, journals, records; old food on the coffee table. As messy as House could be, he typically maintained basic sanitary conditions. Wilson wrinkled his nose at the curdling food and bent to take his shoes off. He unfolded himself on the familiar stretch of brown leather, fully dressed. The idea that perhaps if he didn't take any clothes off, this would feel more temporary fired somewhere deep in his mind.

He stared at the ceiling, hands folded behind his head. So this was home now. Not that he hadn't spent many nights on the couch in the past, but he always had some other place to go if he and House got on each other's nerves. Now…well, there was always his office.

Some time soon, maybe later this afternoon if sleep eluded him, he'd have to go pick up his clothes. The thought of returning his own house made him queasy. Suddenly, but not unpredictably, his life was in shambles again. Not wanting to think about his own misery, he turned his mind to House's instead.

Cuddy was right, of course. In the next few days, they'd start House on a combination of hydrocodone and ibuprofen. He'd perk up once he was in control of his own pain relief again. As soon as his lungs were clear and all other signs of infection gone, he'd be ready to go home.

To come here.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, imagining the fights they'd have. House would want to be left alone. He'd insist that he could get around by himself. Wilson knew he'd watch House struggle and want so badly to offer him help, and that when he finally did break down and help, House would snap and snarl and withdraw. It would be an extension of the relationship they already had. More intense. Angrier.

Yeah. He was looking forward to that.

In a few weeks, House's wrist would heal. He'd whine his way through physical therapy for his knee. He'd go back to work. Things would return to the way they were before Stacy came back.

Wilson wasn't sure if he wanted that for House. House's "normal" wasn't great, but it also wasn't as bad as it could be. House had shown them that by getting his ass kicked last weekend. While nothing was very good about the situation, it could be so much worse. Still, nothing was very good.

For the last few years, Wilson had wondered at stray moments what could make House's life better. He had yet to come up with anything that didn't involve direct divine intervention or a time machine. Maybe in a few years, some researcher would find a new way to manage pain. Maybe they'd understand more about pain in a few years. Maybe in a few years…

He hated this line of thought. It left him helpless, and House helpless too, dependant on time and chance. More years of what House had now, the not-great but not-as-bad-as-it-could-be existence, which he didn't seem especially pleased with… Of course, changing from acetaminophen to ibuprofen would stop the liver damage and probably prolong House's life—but how long a life did House really want?

Wilson shook himself. That thought was not new to him, but it struck hard every time.

He was convinced now that House wasn't suicidal. House just did stupid things when he got too angry or frustrated. He was human. And he could make his own choices. Even if they were poor.

Suddenly Wilson's own personal life seemed much more pleasant to him. Maybe House was right: he would benefit from a little counseling and an SSRI as much as House would. Perhaps more.

He told himself he'd pencil that in. At the rate he was going, he'd be caught up with work in about two weeks. Then maybe he'd make an appointment. Maybe.

For now, if he could keep House from downing another handful of pills in a seedy bar, he'd consider himself a success. Unfortunately—he sighed and rubbed tired hands over his face—he didn't know how to do that.

He closed his eyes. He wasn't doing anything but depressing himself.

He waited for sleep.

He was tired. Tired? Exhausted. He hadn't slept properly in days.

He implored sleep to come.

His head ached, his back, shoulders; he was too old to be dozing in chairs.

He begged.

Sleep refused.

After half an hour of wakefulness, he got up and threw away the moldy food he'd never stopped smelling.

Then he took the trash to the dumpster.

Then he did the dishes.

Then he picked up all the loose clothes and made a neat pile.

Then he drank a glass of tap water. House's refrigerator contained nothing but a flickering light bulb.

All that was left now, unless he got out a broom and a mop, was to pay a visit to his house and gather his things. He couldn't do it today. Not until he'd had some actual sleep.

The too-bright room hummed like a high voltage generator. Too real. Tremors in his hands. He knew the signs of exhaustion. Even if he didn't sleep, he had to lie down.

The living room let in too much afternoon sun. He wandered down the hall. The bedroom was better, on the dark side of the building now.

But the bedroom was House's. In as many years as he'd known House, he'd never spent much time in it. He entered reluctantly and surveyed reluctantly. Bed unmade. Clothes carelessly strewn. Messy, but not as dirty as the living room.

Out of a compulsion to preserve a modicum of cleanliness, he wanted to change the sheets—but he knew better than to think House had a spare set. With resignation, he sat on the bed and undressed until he was left with an undershirt, underwear, and socks.

He felt naked. Wrong. Too intrusive.

He ran his arms through the long sleeves of his Oxford shirt again and put on his pants, removing the belt and emptying the pockets.

That was better. Less like a violation of privacy.

He flipped the pillow over and lay down, kicking the sheet and comforter away.

Street sounds, neighbor sounds, the sound of wooden beams breathing—awareness took over an hour to dissolve. He didn't sleep deeply until the sun set.

* * *

House had stopped trying to move hours ago. Cuddy was bent on Mengeling him with pointless, cruel experiments—a strange irony—and he was too tired, ill, and skeletally unstable to do anything about it. If he had to suffer opiate withdrawal, he'd withdraw as well. No answers for the endless rounds of nurse's questions, no comments about pain. It was his pain, _his_, and if no one would take it seriously, he'd keep it to himself. He swallowed the pills they gave him—piles of ibuprofen, nearing the point of excess—and let them poke him. They were going to do it anyway. He couldn't stop it. In fact, he'd stopped thinking about resistance around the same time he'd stopped resisting—at least six hours ago because his last dose of opiates had been before noon and now it was dark outside.

When he was about twelve or thirteen, House had investigated religion. Real religion—theology. Not the bland off-shoot of Protestantism his parents occasionally observed. He'd wrapped his head around the major concepts, then lost interest, and left the subject alone.

Later, at seventeen, eighteen, twenty-two, in the small flashes of seriousness that sometimes glinted like nicks in the armor of sarcasm he wore, he considered it again. Read a tome here, a tome there. The philosophy and literature courses he'd taken as an undergraduate supplied the secular take.

So while he didn't have any interest in an afterlife, he was familiar with the ideas. During and after the infarction, he'd become familiar with more than the ideas.

And just now—sweating and shaking through opiate withdrawal not soothed enough by whatever benzodiazepine Cuddy had ordered—he recalled bits of Dante's _Purgatorio_ and the Fire Sermon attributed to Buddha. The purifying fire. The cleansing fire. Burning away the sins. Not a hellfire, but nothing about any kind of fire was comfortable.

Purgatory was about penance. What annoyed him was the presumption of repentance. He'd made no confession—Stacy had done that for him—and repented not his actions (they weren't sins, merely actions)—Cuddy had taken care of that—and yet the harsh, lurid, excruciating reality he was experiencing conjured the image and idea of purgatorial flame.

Of course, for Buddha, the fire _was_ material reality of sensation in earthly existence. But not everyone knew they were on fire. And, predictably, to get out of the fire, one had to stop desiring sensuous things. His current desire for any derivative of the poppy screamed _To hell with that!_

Purgatory always seemed the more sinister concept to him. No one in hell had any hope. But Purgatory was built on hope.

Hope and penance.

He was not penitent. He was not sinful. He had cracked and broken bones, a strained ligament, masses of soft tissue damage, a bunch of cauterized vessels under sharp incisions, a gnarl of damaged nerves, and fluid-filled lungs, all now augmented by the cessation of opiates. His pain was located in a reality from which no mind could escape and which no amount of saying _I'm sorry _would blot out.

He was the unrepentant pilgrim circling Mount Purgatory. Metaphorically. In reality, all he did was breathe and hurt.

At some point in the afternoon, he'd wondered why he hadn't resisted more. Acceptance was uncharacteristic. He certainly didn't _want_ to feel all of this pain so closely. He'd simply been deprived of the choice. That to him was true hell, and with hell came no hope of salvation.

He couldn't save himself. No one else seemed willing to save him. But he didn't want to die. Even with this much pain, he didn't desire death. Just relief. It would come eventually. It had to. He hoped despite himself.

But now all he could do was breathe. So he breathed.


	33. New Dwellings

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

Just a quick reminder about the fic so some of this content doesn't confuse too much: it takes place at the end of season 1, pre-Tritter. Everyone's sunk much lower than this in the past two seasons, but for the fic's setting, this is an all-time low.

* * *

**Chapter 31: New Dwellings**

Early morning sunlight suffused with a damp, concentrated smell of House. Wilson blinked beyond the interior red of his eyelids to unfamiliar furniture arranged in an unfamiliar way. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. Where had House found an extra room? He thought he might be dreaming.

But memory returned quickly and fiercely like getting knocked in the head with a baseball bat.

He lay still in the quiet room feeling not a little sorry for himself. Day 2 of separation 3 and here he was waking up in some other man's bed. Not some other woman's bed. Some other _man's_.

Well. At least he'd been the only occupant.

He told himself it was like coming to in a friend or roommate's bed after a night of excessive drinking to find the friend passed out somewhere else. No big deal there.

He almost wished he had been drinking; if this sleeping arrangement were a result of alcohol, it would be less pitiful and depressing. More excusable. More normal.

Frowning, he wondered why he hadn't been drinking.

House's conspicuous absence answered the question as soon as he'd formulated it. Immediately, the day spread out before him: clean up, call the floor or Cuddy to ensure House hadn't run away or been eaten by sharks or anything else implausible but always possible with House, do paperwork until his eyes ached, and spend lunch gathering the material fragments of his former life from the house. Though he wasn't the praying type, he prayed she wouldn't be there.

First step. Clean up.

He rolled off the mattress and stretched, still fully clothed. None of his clothes were here. House's clothes were just tight enough on him that he didn't want to wear them. At least he could have a proper shower, though. And a shave. Maybe. Depending on the state of the razor.

Forty years old and this was his life.

Forcefully, he pushed self-pity aside and set his mind on anticipating House.

Cuddy's idea to try House on Neurontin for one whole day after all narcotics had cleared his system made absolutely no sense. With a drug like it, so unreliable, they needed a month to work out the right dosage. _If_ it worked at all. And it hadn't worked for him before, so why would it work now?

He shook his head, digging through the bathroom's small closet. Never should have agreed. _What_ had he been thinking?

He found a clean towel—a minor miracle—and carefully laid his clothes out of the way.

Today House would be miserable. Detoxing. In pain. Pain he couldn't even imagine. All for one day on a medicine that would do nothing for non-neuropathic pain, which accounted for most of the pain House had right now. And while he knew House was getting plenty of ibuprofen to combat pain and inflammation, he also knew that wasn't enough. In fact, they were so close to violating protocol—if House's pain ratings were what he imagined they'd be—hell, they _were _violating protocol.

He scrubbed quickly. He'd talk to her. Fix it. Immediately. He had no idea how or why this plan had made sense to him in the first place.

So much had happened in the past few days. He told himself their mismanagement of House's meds resulted from the flurry of activity. But he knew he was fooling no one, least of all himself. Mismanaging someone's pain meant mismanaging someone. Hurting someone. A person. A friend. A friend whose trust they coveted. _A friend_.

He'd skip the shave.

* * *

Hardly had he stepped in the front door when a nurse at the reception desk called his name.

"Dr. Wilson."

He responded impatiently, walking quickly to the desk.

"Dr. Cuddy wants to see you as soon as possible."

He thanked her and resumed his original course to Cuddy's office. _That was helpful_, House snorted in his mind. _Shut up, it was helpful. Now I don't have to interrupt her._

Shaking his head to clear it of an imaginary argument, he tapped on the door. Thankfully, she was alone.

As soon as she saw him, he noticed her put down her pen and the total seriousness which swept over her face as she beckoned him in.

Worry crept over him. If something had happened, someone would have paged him—right? Cuddy would have paged him. So it couldn't be anything too bad…

He perched on the edge of a chair, his body screaming restlessness.

"What's up?" he asked. His left heel thumped on the carpet of its own accord.

"About House." She seemed to cringe when she spoke. "I think we made a mistake. I made a mistake."

"So do I," he agreed quickly. "Think I made a mistake," he clarified. "We did."

She pulled a tired yet still sarcastic expression. "You want to go first?" she asked in a very House-like tone.

He knew she meant the question rhetorically, but he answered anyway. "Detoxing him was a bad decision. The shape he's in—we wouldn't do it to anyone else in the same condition." His foot pattered on. "I never should have agreed."

She nodded once. "I never should have proposed it."

From a drawer in her desk, she produced an orange bottle and gave it to him. He read the label. Good.

He was nearly on his feet, the bottle firmly enclosed in a fist, when Cuddy spoke again.

"He had a dose over an hour ago," she said. "I called to check on him. He's sleeping."

Wilson sat back down, suddenly able to breathe more easily. The fist in which he'd been strangling the bottle unclenched. He nodded briefly at her decision. His foot began to thump again.

"What brought about this change of heart?" he asked.

She winced. "You really want to know?"

His lip pulled unhappily. "It's as much my fault…"

Cuddy sighed. "The charge nurse reported complaints from two of the nurse's on yesterday's day shift and three on the night shift. They all recognized the signs of severe pain—pulse and BP through the roof—but he wouldn't respond to them. He was awake. _Very_ responsive to stimuli. Just wouldn't speak or make eye contact."

His foot stopped dead. Shame, guilt, self-hatred, and horror engulfed him.

So House had withdrawn completely. He always did when the pain was bad and no one would listen to him. The shift nurses all knew him by now, his list of ailments, the medication he'd been on until yesterday afternoon. Of course they protested. It was an inexcusable thing to do to another human being.

He put an elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned into his hand. "Doubt he'll trust us again," he said wearily.

Cuddy's expression seemed to both soften and harden simultaneously as she folded her arms on her desk. "He'll trust you," she said. "He doesn't know you were involved."

Wilson stared at her.

"We need him to trust one of us," she explained.

Just as they'd done a few months ago when he'd suggested she bet him clinic hours to give up Vicodin for a week. House never let on he suspected anyone but Cuddy was behind it.

Wilson shook his head. "I've got to tell him."

_Should have told him last time_, he growled at himself. _Some friend_.

From Cuddy's expression, he gathered she wasn't pleased with the idea. But she didn't argue.

"You do what you have to," she said. "But try to preserve some scrap of trust."

"It won't be deserved," Wilson said, "but I will."

With that, he gripped the bottle, giving it a little shake, and left her office.


	34. Solipsism

When we last left our heroes, House was being a self-destructive idiot, Wilson was busy guilting himself over being a crappy friend, and Cuddy was regretting some of the things she'd done. Same old same.

* * *

**Chapter 32: Solipsism**

Despite the emotional and psychological trauma typically associated with them, there was something peaceful about hospital rooms with sleeping patients inside. Not wanting to disturb that rare commodity, peace, Wilson carefully slid the door to House's room open, awkwardly clamping a few hours' worth of paperwork against his side and balancing a coffee container with one arm.

One of the nurses—probably one of the ones angry at Cuddy—had constructed a pillow fortress around House's right knee and ankle before turning him on his right side. Or trying to: House, it appeared, had tried to roll onto his back again, leaving him sprawled haphazardly with his head facing left, his torso raised slightly on a pillow placed behind his back to keep him from rolling over, and his hips facing right because his left leg hadn't obeyed the 'roll over' command. The only thing that hadn't moved was his right leg, encased as it was in five or six pillows.

Wilson cringed at the thought of House's twisted spine, put the paperwork and coffee down, and beckoned to one of the nurses to help him adjust the big sleeping lunk. Her sympathetic smile and the care with which she helped Wilson move House to realign his spine—really, the fact that she hadn't scowled at the sight of House—told Wilson she was one of the anti-Cuddy nurses. He tried to return her warm smile, but succeeded only in looking like he'd been chewing on dirt.

_I'm not one of the good guys_, he wanted to tell her, but the situation wouldn't allow it.

House snorted and mumbled and swatted weakly at the mattress but remained asleep. The nurse smiled at him like he'd done something cute. Wilson allowed himself to be sickened on House's behalf. House would have to work hard to alienate the nurses who'd protested Cuddy's treatment of him. Wilson told himself to remember to have a talk with them before House was conscious again; nice people—especially nice nurses—shouldn't suffer for being nice.

He found himself giving the nurse a real smile.

_You're turning into Cameron_, his internal House said. _Just don't start hitting on me_.

And promptly he stopped smiling.

The nurse straightened the fold on House's gown and gave his chest a little pat. Wilson flashed the dirt smile again and nodded a thank-you as she exited. Welcome to Bizarro World. Where else could nurses actually like House?

And where else could he, Wilson, be the villain?

He gripped the bed rail and sighed. House looked like crap, but still better than he had this weekend. After last night, during which he'd gotten no sleep according to the nurses, he'd be out most of the day.

He was out now—still out. They hadn't exactly manhandled him, but House was a light sleeper who wasn't on heavy meds. Wilson frowned.

But before he could run a cost-benefit analysis of waking House, his breakfast tray arrived.

Wilson helped set it up, and was pleased when the noise bothered House, who took too deep a breath and began coughing.

By the time he finished, he was red from face to chest, gripping his ribs protectively, and glowering at Wilson.

"You sound better," Wilson offered.

House continued to glower for effect, then grunted and closed his eyes.

"Hey," Wilson said, stepping next to the bed so he could snap his fingers in House's face, "breakfast time."

"Tired," House croaked.

"You need to eat," Wilson answered.

House didn't respond.

Wilson sighed heavily, very annoyed at House. Today was Wednesday. The fight had occurred on Friday night. Saturday's lunch was comprised of jello and broth; Saturday's dinner was Fentanyl for the late-presenting ligament strain. Sunday morning was the same cream of wheat probably lurking in one of the maroon containers right now, then jello, then the first real food House had had, a sandwich, but dinner was meds again: Levaquin, Versed, Demerol, other medication for the pneumonia he'd developed and the second surgery he'd required after tearing the stitches in his abdomen. Then back to liquids Monday morning, bland solids at noon and a full container of soup for dinner—good—a real breakfast on Tuesday which he'd only picked at—and that was it. From late yesterday morning until early this morning, he'd been in a non-responsive detox/sulk, ignoring everything and everyone, including lunch and dinner.

Added up, he'd gone over four days without adequate nutrition. So right now, he would eat, Wilson decided. He could sleep after he ate.

"Hey," Wilson said loudly. "You don't eat now, you get a feeding tube."

House scrunched his face petulantly, groaned, and pressed the button to raise the head of the bed.

Satisfied, Wilson began uncovering dishes. Yes, there was the cream of wheat, but House also got eggs, sausage, toast, pancakes, and a fruit medley.

Wilson shrugged, his own stomach growling at the sight and smell of food. "Looks decent."

House must have heard his stomach, because he slapped Wilson's hands, pulled the tray close, and stuffed three-quarters of the sausage patty into his mouth.

"Mine," he said half-around chewed sausage.

Wilson held his hands up and backed away, pleased at the sight of House trying to choke himself with food but smart enough to hide his pleasure.

House gestured toward the television with the remainder of the sausage patty. Feigning annoyance, Wilson nodded toward the remote control built into the rail of the bed.

"Or do you want me to do it for you?" Wilson asked snidely.

House swallowed and held up the sausage. "Only one working hand," he said.

"And you're using it as a shovel," Wilson commented with disgust as House crammed toast in with the rest of the sausage.

House rolled his eyes: _duh_.

So Wilson feigned more annoyance, found the right button, and turned the television on.

"Should I ask what you want to watch, or would I be wasting my time?"

"Oo awedy asted ur ime."

"What?"

House swallowed and glowered. "I'll tell you when to stop." Then he lifted half a handful of scrambled eggs to his mouth, spilling bits of yellow fluff on his chest.

"You're making a mess," Wilson carped, dividing his attention between House and his channel changing duties.

House ignored him, grabbing the rest of the eggs while he chewed.

In the time it took Wilson to cycle through the channels twice, House had eaten everything except one pancake and the cream of wheat.

"_This_ is why I'm never up at 8 a.m.," House complained, biting into the last pancake.

"You want it off?" Wilson asked.

House just shrugged. Wilson took that as an okay to sit down and stare at a piece of paper.

House finished the pancake, drank the bottle of orange juice in three huge gulps, belched loudly, and pushed the tray away.

"Lovely," Wilson commented, not taking his eyes from the memo he hadn't managed to absorb yet. Secretly, he was very, very happy.

"What does Cuddy the Terrible have me doing today?" House asked. "Getting neutered? Or—"

"Double physical therapy," Wilson said before House could continue. He did his very best not to look uncomfortable, but House had picked up on his tone and—yes, House was scrutinizing him. To avoid squirming, Wilson reached into his pocket for the pill bottle Cuddy had given him and tossed it to House.

"Also from Cuddy," Wilson said.

House grunted as the bottle bounced into his lap.

"Cuddy's sticking with aspirin?" House asked as he read the label.

Wilson shrugged. "You can have it with ibuprofen if you want."

House sniffed. "And here I was the whole time, thinking hydrocodone was the problem."

Wilson shrugged again. "The anti-inflammatory and antiplatelet actions benefit you."

House closed a fist around the bottle, trying to stare down Wilson. "Ri-ight."

Wilson refused to meet his stare.

"So why detox me last night?" House asked rhetorically, squeezing the bottle.

Wilson bristled. "She felt it was the best course of action at the time," he said. "Then she realized that not only was it stupid, but it was also harmful, negligent—all of those bad words."

House was interested in Cuddy's move now, gazing off into the distance beyond Wilson's right shoulder. "But why not stick to her guns—detox me completely, prove her stupid, harmful, negligent Neurontin theory wrong?"

Wilson saw the realization coming and cringed.

"Thanks," House said in an uncharacteristically perky tone, then relaxed into the pillows and closed his eyes, the new pill bottle still in his hand.

Wilson frowned and cocked his head. _Thanks?_ House clearly preferred to trust him.

He shook his head. Cuddy would be pleased that House still trusted him. House seemed pleased. _Thanks?_ House never thanked anyone.

Of course, they'd had this conversation an hour and a half after House's first narcotic dose in almost twenty-four hours. After breakfast, too—a substantial breakfast which House needed and which had no doubt opened the endorphin flood-gates. House felt good, and attributed that good feeling to Wilson's intervention.

Crap.

A strange wheeze-snore emanated from the bed. Wilson glanced at House's slack face, weighing the need to unburden himself with House's need to believe he had an ally. The choice wasn't hard to make.

He closed his eyes, scratched his head, and blew out a breath. House was going to drive him to…to he didn't know what.

But this he knew: every last scrap of paperwork, here and in his office, he deserved.


	35. PT Redux

**Chapter 33: ****PT Redux**

Hours later, Wilson was coaching a cursing, red-faced House, holding an emesis basin to catch the neon mucous House kept coughing up, and thinking that this too he deserved. Except that House wasn't cursing at him.

"You giant son of a—"

Wilson winced as another fit of coughing shook House's bony upper body. House clutched a pillow tightly around his ribs and gasped between long, painful series of coughs. At length, he spat into the basin and glared at the large man whose hands were resting on his left foot.

"—bitch," House finished, trying to catch his breath.

Masterson returned House's glare. "Not very creative with your cursing today, House," he said. "I won't say that I rely on you to tell me something I haven't heard before, but I have come to expect it."

"Sorry to let you down," House sneered, squeezing the pillow and grimacing at a sudden stab in his chest. Wilson offered him a towel to wipe the various fluids from his face and neck.

House's coughing fits had slowed the PT session significantly. They hadn't finished a full round with the left leg yet.

"I know you're only doing it to ruin my day," Masterson snipped. He patted House's foot. "Five more on this leg, then we get started on the right."

Masterson helped House lift the leg, careful to minimize the strain on his abdominal muscles, and began flexing the hip joint to work the quad and hamstring. House rested his back against the upraised bed and let him manipulate the limb.

"We'll keep doing this until you contribute," Masterson said.

Mouth in a thin line, House angrily complied, trying to breathe shallowly and resisting the urge to satisfy Masterson with a hail of creative curses. Wilson understood his thinking: if he spoke, he'd breathe deeply, and then he'd be coughing again.

The left leg was easy. It was uninjured. Masterson helped lower it, then moved to the right leg.

"Hip first," he said, watching House's eyes for anger, resentment, pain—all of the usual markers of a PT session—and waited for House to indicate that it was okay for him to move the leg.

House gripped the pillow tightly, took a shallow breath, and nodded.

Holding his breath worked. Sure, he tensed, paled, and screamed inwardly as the movement grated his knee, but he didn't hiss and hence didn't start coughing.

Masterson watched and waited again, holding House's leg in position to flex the hip. House let out the breath he'd been holding, took another one, and nodded again.

They worked slowly, allowing House time to exhale and inhale between reps. Every ten reps, Masterson held the leg still while House caught up on oxygen. That way, they worked through each hip joint exercise without triggering a coughing fit.

A combination of amazement and incredulity flashed over Wilson's face as he exchanged a glance with Masterson, who was equally surprised.

House bared his teeth at the two of them and would have snarled if not for a long list of very good reasons to keep quiet.

Then all three tensed: now for the hard part.

Masterson waited for House's nod, then slowly bent his knee. What little color remained in House's face fled immediately as every muscle in his body contracted, but he made no noise. Once the knee was still again, he exhaled. Wilson noticed a light sheen of sweat break out on his forehead. House inhaled, his eyes closed, and Masterson proceeded.

Seven reps later, streams of sweat had formed dark patches on House's gown and his lips were as bloodless as his face. He had abandoned the breathing technique for shallow gasps.

"Last one," Masterson said quietly, more to himself and Wilson than to House.

As soon as Masterson placed his leg back on the bed, House collapsed against the mattress, every muscle loosening simultaneously. He shook and shuddered involuntarily, still gasping shallowly.

Masterson withdrew into himself, accustomed as he was to the sight of his patients relaxing, but Wilson remained uncomfortable. He'd seen worse—he'd seen House worse—but still, this was House, and if he and Cuddy hadn't been total morons, House would have gotten this PT yesterday.

Wilson picked up the towel he'd given House earlier and hesitated. Masterson watched him move his hand indecisively, first toward House, then back to the tray where the towel had been, then to House, then back again, but offered no counsel. Like Masterson, House had withdrawn inwardly—a normal reaction for him to physical therapy. He too withheld his help.

Eventually, Wilson gave up and put the towel down. Masterson took the action as his cue to wrap up the session.

He clapped House's left foot. "Good work today," he said, moving to the sink to wash his hands. "I'll see you this afternoon."

Except for the rise and fall of his chest, House appeared to be dead.

Masterson dried his hands and looked to Wilson. "Three o'clock."

Wilson nodded. Masterson returned the nod and left.

Wilson studied House. His vitals had begun to stabilize—pulse down in the 120s from its peak in the 140s, pulse ox up to 94 from 89, diastolic down to the low nineties; relatively stable—but his color was still absent. Wilson knew the signs of pain. He rapped a knuckle on the bed rail, wanting to give House some chemical help but wanting House to communicate with him first. It wasn't an admission he sought. Just communication.

He told himself he wasn't screwing this up.

"Let me know what you need and I'll get it for you," he said.

Yet the sense that he was handling this situation the wrong way persisted.

Not sure what to do, Wilson filled a cup of water and left it within House's reach, then plopped down in his chair and buried himself in paper.


	36. Hurt

Thanks for the reviews. I appreciate them. This chapter goes well with Johnny Cash's rendition of Nine Inch Nails' song "Hurt."

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**Chapter 34: Hurt**

An hour later, House opened his eyes to the same bright overhead hospital lights he'd seen over and over again in the past four days—the past eternity, may as well be, as slowly as four days passed in a hospital bed. A mix of phlegm and more than a day's build-up of normal oral bacteria made him swish his tongue against his teeth with disgust. Some mouthwash, was that so much to ask?

His body radiated heat. The heat in his legs was an after-effect of working his muscles, joints, tendons, and ligaments earlier. As for his torso and head—probably a low-grade fever: a response to the pain caused by physical therapy, to physical therapy itself, to all the coughing he'd done and the pain it had produced, to his body adjusting to aspirin's action after days of meperidine and ibuprofen's actions, or a sign that his immune system was still working hard. A combination of all of those causes, probably; he was no less uncomfortable if it were one cause rather than another.

Wilson breathed somewhere to his right. Still there. They were still watching him. They being Cuddy. And Wilson. Sort of.

His throat hurt. Sore. Dry. Scratchy. Nothing serious. Just a side effect of sleeping. Which he didn't remember doing, but he assumed that it must have happened, because more time had passed than he had experienced. He didn't recall anyone—okay, Wilson, not anyone—giving him something for pain after PT. Nothing oral, anyway. So either the dose of new aspirin-infused Vicodin he'd taken before PT had quelled the grating in his knee sufficiently to let him sleep or Wilson was really, really awesome. The former, probably, since he didn't feel buzzed and hadn't slept _that_ well. Still, having hyrdocodone back in his system rather than being forced to endure PT on nothing but Cuddy-brand snake oil and an anti-inflammatory—he'd let Wilson off this time for not providing a post-PT booster.

Maybe not that low a fever, he considered, realizing his thoughts were bouncing around like a poorly-played game of Pong.

A dark pink plastic cup waited on the patient tray on front of him. Wilson's doing of course. Who else? Water, he wanted. The heat in both of his legs to go away, he wanted. The fluid in his lungs, the cracks in his ribs, the lingering soreness around his eyes, nose, and jaw, the too-familiar overhead lights—these he wanted to go away as well.

Knowing it would upset his wet lungs, he resisted the impulse to sigh out of self-pity. Four days on his back. A lifetime. The constant tingling twinges crisscrossing his right quad—only irritating right now, not unbearable as they had been yesterday—fired with the same persistence as always.

Only one other time had he woken up under the same hospital room lights for four days straight.

The humming in his leg didn't change at that thought; it no longer responded to memories of the infarction. Maybe that meant he no longer responded to those memories. And maybe he was more than just the humming in his leg.

And maybe he was just really thirsty.

He picked the cup up and drained it in two swallows. A glance to the right at his personal waterboy revealed that he (the waterboy) was engrossed in something. House slammed the cup down on the tray and smiled mildly when Wilson jumped.

Wilson glared; House's smile widened. He waved the cup.

"Dying of thirst here," he said in that weak, froggy hospital voice he hated.

"Dying of paperwork here," Wilson returned, setting the papers aside and stretching. "Trade ya."

"Nope," House answered, tracking Wilson's movement through the room as he refilled the cup. "There's a cure for thirst, but the cure for paperwork…" He trailed off intentionally, then shrugged. "You're better off betting on someone finding the cure for cancer first." He took the cup from Wilson and drank half of it quickly. "Would put you out of a job, though, so maybe you shouldn't bet on that." He finished the cup of water and gave it back to Wilson for another refill.

Wilson gave him the bemused stare, half-chuckle, and rock-back-and-forth-on-the-heels move that signaled he was reassessing House's sanity yet again. He said nothing; just poured more water into cup, placed the pitcher on the tray where House could reach it himself, and returned to his chair.

House glowered at Wilson for not responding—he realized he sounded mildly delirious, but that was nothing new—then stretched cautiously, testing the degree of movement he could make without triggering the internal knives and ice picks. A constant dull ache he could handle—for more than five years he'd felt a constant pain of some kind—but the acute stabs in his ribs wore him down. He concluded that he was still limited to slow, careful motions if he wanted to minimize the knivings. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before yesterday.

Wilson had returned his papers. Agh. Not even a little help with what was obviously a severe case of boredom. Hadn't even turned on the TV. Some friend.

"I'm becoming bored with my medical problems," House said. He screwed up his face, reconsidering. "No, I've _been_ bored." House eyed Wilson. "So you must be…" He waited for Wilson to fill in the blank.

Wilson exhaled in that restless, half-annoyed, definitely skittish manner he had, bounced a little in his chair, opened his mouth to answer, and hesitated. House had a theory that he only pretended to be reconsidering his words when he fidgeted like that.

"It's refreshing, you being concerned about my well-being," Wilson said, "but since there's no cure for paperwork other than doing it, as you pointed out…" He spread a hand to indicate the stack of papers next to him.

House's scrutiny intensified. Not only was Wilson not helping him become un-bored, he wasn't even… House shook his head. He was tired of Wilson's complete lack of company. If Wilson was going to babysit him, he could at least provide some entertainment. If not… Well…

House concluded that a complete stranger was better than a non-entertaining Wilson, with his attempt to do work while House was very bored. It was a slap in the face.

"Pleasurable as I know you find paperwork," House began, "you _do_ have little bald-headed cancer kids scampering around here somewhere, dying, puking, breaking their poor parents' hearts…you see where I'm going."

"You wanna get rid of me, House, just say so," Wilson said absently, intent on the form in front of him. "There's no need for subtlety."

House drank the rest of the water in the cup but didn't bother refilling it. Couldn't, really. The more time he spent sleeping, losing weight and energy, the heavier the cast on his right wrist became. No sense in spilling water on himself.

Wilson wasn't doing anything to draw him out of a sulk, so he gave in. Because really, he had become an object of pure pathos. Absolutely pathetic. It had only taken about four days for him to reach the same state during the leg infarct too. Wilson may be a better hanger-on than Stacy—less drama overall even though Wilson had had his moments in the past few days—but that didn't diminish House's sense of being utterly useless. Now as then he wanted to be useless and pathetic at home, or at least in private if he had to stay here. Four days into in-patient confinement portion of the infarction, he'd trained Stacy to limit her visits to a few minutes every few hours so he could have plenty of private time to assess and reassess his situation.

Privacy wasn't such a huge request. He frowned: hadn't they cleared up the whole 'you're suicidal' issue _days_ ago? Now Cuddy was doing nothing more than irritating him with petty inconveniences. Which wasn't much of a change from her usual behavior, but he was ill and incapacitated, and perfectly capable of being ill and incapacitated alone.

He fixed his best soul-piercing stare on the part in Wilson's hair, as Wilson insisted on paying attention to his papers.

"I've lost track of the restrictions Cuddy's placed on me," he said. "I get my privacy back—what, when pigs become kosher?"

Wilson rolled his eyes.

House shrugged. "Just trying to plan my day."

Wilson shifted in the chair but didn't answer immediately. House, becoming truly bored now, decided to make him answer.

"Or maybe the better question is," he began with a sly grin, "have you piled the remains of your self-esteem in my living room yet?"

Wilson's mouth formed a hard line. "Well, the last time we talked seriously about _you_, your brain was cooking itself," Wilson said. "I don't know if you remember…"

House took the pause Wilson gave him. "I must've said something really soulful and honest," he said in his overly sincere tone, "because I haven't seen the shrink around lately."

Wilson shrugged. "You know what the shrink thinks already—that you're depressed and that you'd benefit from an anti-depressant."

"A tricyclic anti-depressant," House amended, "_rumored_ to be somewhat effective for chronic pain, _known_ to be contraindicated for patients whose livers' well-being outweighs their generalized feelings of sadness at not being happy all the time." He paused, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. "Or did Cuddy take me off acetaminophen this morning for some other reason."

"Not contraindicated," Wilson countered, "to be used with caution. And only on patients with impaired liver function. Your liver is—"

"No longer metabolizing massive amounts of acetaminophen because…?"

Wilson sighed. "Trying it won't hurt you."

"_Probably_ won't hurt me," House corrected. His eyes begged Wilson to contradict him.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "So pick another compound that acts on serotonin and norepinephrine reuptake systems. Or on dopamine reuptake. In fact, I'm surprised you're _not _interested in upping your dopamine level."

"My neurochemistry is fine the way it is," House grumbled, sensing that Wilson was evading his original question only now. He realized he must have a fever if he was noticing things this slowly.

"Right," Wilson sniffed, "the rest of us need an adjustment."

"I don't think I need it," House said, a little too forcefully, stirring a wet, heavy cough from his lungs. He breathed shallowly until the urge to keep coughing subsided.

"In my medical opinion," he continued, "I don't need it. Any of it. I wouldn't prescribe it to myself."

Wilson sniffed again. "What you _would_ prescribe to yourself—"

"Because my damn leg hurts," House seethed, aware that he was going to make himself cough again but too annoyed at having _this _discussion again when what the really wanted to know was when he'd get his privacy back, and when he'd get to go home and be miserable in more palatable surroundings to really care.

"If it didn't hurt, I wouldn't need anything."

There was no avoiding the reflex: he'd gotten too upset, spoken too loudly, and breathed too deeply, so of course he began coughing. He cursed and coughed, cursed and coughed, starting to get really pissed off at everything. He applied pressure to his ribs, even more pissed off when Wilson got up to hold a basin under his chin, and even _more_ pissed off that if Wilson hadn't been there, he'd be hacking green goo all over his lap right now.

House snatched the basin from Wilson, giving him the best dirty look he could manage.

Wilson returned House's anger with an impassive expression and poured more water for him, then returned to his seat. He crossed his arms and waited for House to get his wind back.

Once House was no longer a light shade of puce, Wilson continued the conversation.

"I don't have to point out the entirely hypothetical nature of what you just said."

"But you did anyway," House said hoarsely, angrily swallowing the water Wilson had given him. That Wilson had _had_ to give him because his damn arm was too heavy to lift and— He ground his teeth, snarling at the crap he'd coughed up. If Wilson wanted to make this difficult, he had no problem playing along. He was so tired of being sick and in pain.

"Wife number 3 jumps ship and you _don't_ feel like self-medicating with a drink or a fight?" House sneered.

"I know the difference between self-medicating and overdosing, and I know you know the difference, too," Wilson pointed out.

"I can't screw up?" House growled, wanting to so badly to yell, hating that he had to restrain himself to keep his lungs in one piece. "You're the one who's always telling me I'm not God. Here's your proof."

"You can screw up," Wilson said, "but in the same way, twice—that's suspect."

"By that logic, you never should have been allowed to marry Mrs. Wilson number 3." House realized he was starting to shake. He hadn't been aware he was so angry. But he felt _good_.

"Big difference," Wilson retorted, feeling himself growing as angry as House.

"Yeah," House said. "My mistake screws up my week. Yours screws up a few years at least, and another person's life."

He grinned wildly, his head spinning, as blood crept up Wilson's neck and into his face.

Wilson set his jaw. "We're not making this comparison."

"Don't want to think you're just as screwed up as I am, huh?" House sneered, well aware that he was pushing an already-fragile Wilson. He'd been manipulated too much this week; he was allowed to manipulate someone else, to feel normal again. "Really ruins that image you have of yourself, doesn't it?"

Wilson was fully red-faced now. "Yeah, it does," he grudgingly admitted. "But we're not talking about the same thing."

"No," House said dangerously. "The damage I do to my body can be undone."

As angry as he was because he knew House was right, Wilson forced himself to stay seated. He wouldn't get up and leave. He wouldn't avoid this conversation just because House was making him angry enough to do something he'd regret.

House had begun to pant. He swallowed against the spasms in his lungs and made himself calm down. Furious as it made him, he knew he couldn't do anything else. He'd made his point. Now he had other business to tend to.

He unhooked the wires and tubes that tied him to the bed, swept the covers aside, and began the difficult process of moving his sore legs.

Wilson had begun to settle down too, having made himself stare at the floor and count to twenty a few times. When he looked up, House was—

"Whoa—wait—where are you going?"

Wilson started to stand but House's condescending expression pushed him back.

"To take a dump," House answered nastily, not wanting help, knowing he needed it, feeling so frustrated, but unable to do anything about it. "Wanna hold my hand?"

Wilson glowered at him, annoyed, but found himself rising from the chair and approaching House anyway. What else could he do?

They both knew House needed help to cross the room, but again House's expression stopped Wilson in his tracks a few strides from House's side.

"You know I really want to hit you right now," House said menacingly. He didn't want or need any of this. Not any of it. But dammit, he had to get up and he needed help. _Dammit_.

Wilson tensed, anger flooding back. "Not as much as I want to hit you," he answered.

"You wouldn't hit a cripple," House taunted, still balancing precariously on the edge of the bed. "You wouldn't hit a non-cripple."

Wilson's face flushed and before either of them knew what was happening, Wilson slammed his fist into the drywall next to the bathroom door.

House sat still, somewhat amazed, watching as Wilson alternately shook his left wrist and gripped it tightly with his right hand. He had doubled over and was holding his left arm close to his body and snorting like an angry bull.

House waited for the initial shock to pass—ten, fifteen seconds.

"Tell me that's healthy," he said.

Wilson, still snorting and red-faced, looked up at him. "Better than keeping it inside."

A grim smile crept onto House's face. Wilson had just pointed out the reason he'd done what he'd done last week. How convenient.

"So you think intentionally causing yourself physical pain in order to relieve a strong emotion is healthy," House said.

Wilson kept clutching his hand, but his breathing had slowed. He didn't miss House's point.

"It's not the same thing."

"No," House said, "I didn't punch a wall. That's just stupid."

"House—"

"What happens to most people when they take a handful of pills with liquor?" House asked.

Wilson stared at him, knowing the question was rhetorical as well as he knew the answer. He waited, clenching and unclenching his hand.

House waited too.

Realizing House wasn't going to lecture, Wilson straightened up some. "You could've aspirated," he said. "Plenty of people do."

House rolled his eyes. "I'm smart enough to pass out on my side."

Wilson ground his teeth, realizing what House meant. "Or pick a fight with someone twice your size," he said to himself. Suddenly his hand didn't hurt as much.

House tilted his head slightly. "You had to smash your hand to figure that out?" He chuckled carefully. "I wonder what Cuddy'll have to do."

House planted his left foot on the floor, held on to the bed rail to maintain his balance, and stood up. "Still gotta poop."

Wilson glowered again but stood to his full height and ducked under House's right arm. He stiffened as his forearm made contact with House's left side.

House chuckled again, wheezing and swallowing a cough. "That was really stupid."

Wilson grunted with annoyance as they took a step.

"Yeah, well, you stink," Wilson replied lamely. "I'll tell the nurses you need a bath."

He tightened his hold as House began to slump, already trembling with effort. Just a few steps, but four days lying a bed made those few steps nearly impossible.

"_After_…you tell Cuddy…why you need an x-ray," House countered breathlessly.

Wilson hissed and grunted as he helped House sit on the toilet.

"Baby," House accused, holding his rib cage loosely with his left arm, breathing as heavily as Wilson had been earlier, doing his best not to cough. "You want any of my new stash to ease that anger you can't keep under control—so not happening."

Wilson clutched his wrist again. "You're not going to be happy until I do hit you," he said.

House merely narrowed his eyes and farted. "You're not going to be happy if you're still here in thirty seconds."

Wilson affected repulsion and backed out of the bathroom. "Keep the door cracked," he instructed. "The nurses'll change the linens."

"And keep an eye on me," House grumbled, nudging the door closed.

Wilson nudged the door open to a crack. "You'd probably manage to flush yourself down the toilet if they didn't."

"Go tell Cuddy what you did," House called from behind the door.

House was too busy arranging his gown to close the door again. He heard Wilson leave. He knew he should feel some satisfaction now that Wilson had a more intimate understanding of his situation, but after so much burning anger and frustration, he felt nothing but emptiness.

Footsteps and shuffling alerted him to the presence of people changing his sheets. Fabulous. He stared at a spot on the tile floor to avoid looking at his body. They would want to know all about this little bodily function. They would have to help him back to bed, where he'd languish forever if Cuddy had her way.

This was misery. And in a minute or two, he'd have company. He closed his eyes. Just a little time to himself to feel like he had some autonomy, that was all he wanted. With a shallow sigh, he opened his eyes to stare at the floor again, knowing he wasn't going to get it.


End file.
